


And All the King's Men

by miasmatrix



Series: All The King's Horses [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And a happy ending, Angst, BAMF John, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Smut, Fix-it fic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, I swear, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Season 3, Season 3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1294636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to "All the King's Horses". </p><p>Mary is dead. Or is she? John seems to have made peace with many of his demons. Sherlock, though, finds that even ghosts can do a lot of damage.</p><p>(Whereas "All the King's Horses" focused mainly on grief and acceptance, this one deals with something that's maybe just as difficult: How to get your life back. Or how to start an entirely new one. It's probably a good idea to read "All the King's Horses" first if you haven't read it, this might not make much sense otherwise.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The folder sat on the kitchen table like a green mamba, Sherlock thought. It fit right in with the rest of the rubble, camouflaged by the papers and books and eviscerated notebooks and, curiously, withered apples someone had bought someday and forgotten. Just another thing nobody dared to touch because it might be an experiment or too much hassle to dispose of. It sat there poised to strike and destroy everything Sherlock loved. John hadn't seen it yet, this deadly predator on their kitchen table.  
  
"You do the right thing", Mycroft had said. Incredibly helpful. What was the right thing? Leave John in the dark? Forget about the contents of the folder? That would mean concealing the mamba underneath a nice thick layer of leaves, and at some point, someone would step on it, or it would slither into their bed, or whatever it was snakes did. He would be unprepared, and that was the worst.  
Tell him? Risk John leaving? Go after her then. Take a week or two, hunt her down, finish what she started. Or just tell Mycroft to call in those favours and - no, some things you had to do yourself. Put your dying dog down. Kill your partner's wife when she didn't have the good grace to stay dead. But that was Mary, and he had liked her, hadn't he.  
Was it Mary? What if this was a cruel trick, a ruse by Mycroft to find out if their relationship could weather a storm. Or to find out if he'd be honest with John... If he'd grown enough to trust someone. He wouldn't put it past Mycroft.  
  
The right thing. What was "right" after all? The right decision in a battle could be mercy or unspeakable, deliberate cruelty. Morally right? Mycroft knew Sherlock had done so many things that weren't morally right to right a wrong.  
But he'd hated that, and Mycroft knew. And even green mambas had their place in nature. So maybe that's what it was. Morals.  
  
"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, slightly annoyed at the intrusion.

"Come help me with the greens. The chicken's almost done."

Right. Roast chicken. John made roast chicken because that was Sherlock's favourite. He rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Got a headache?"

John had interrupted his chopping for a moment to watch him, and he looked slightly worried and caring and so - nice, so perfect that Sherlock, once again, wondered how he'd ever got so lucky. He couldn't help himself, he jumped out of his chair and hugged him. He held him so close their entire bodies touched.

"Hey", John said gently. "I love you too. Let me look at the chicken." When that didn't have the desired effect, he dropped the random kitchen utensil he was holding and hugged him back, hard, ran his hands through Sherlock's overgrown hair and lifted his head to look at him. "Hey you. What's wrong?"

"Don't ever go away. John. Please. I don't want to be alone out there."

At that, John dismissed the chicken and pressed his cheek to Sherlock's, nuzzling his ear and whispering: "I'll never go away."

When Sherlock still didn't let him go, he said: "We'll eat chicken without greens then." And still a bit later: "I do love you, but we'll set the flat on fire if you don't let me look at the chicken."  
Sherlock did let him go then. And red-cheeked and smiling and his hair a mess as usual, Sherlock looked so young and so innocent John's heart missed a beat.

 

  
They didn't burn the chicken after all. Sherlock ate in silence, and John suspected he ate to please John, not because he was hungry. Not a good sign. John wished he'd share whatever troubled him, but he knew him well enough to know Sherlock needed his time.  
  
He was still deep in thought when night fell, and John's patience wore thin. He conceded he didn't have that much after all. Sherlock sat in his chair by the fire and watched the embers die.  
  
"Are you coming to bed?"  
  
"Sherlock. You coming?"  
  
John was worried then. He touched Sherlock's knee briefly to let him know he was still there. "Hey. What's wrong?"

Sherlock did look up and smiled at him. "Nothing. Nothing really." But then, his smile faltered and he touched John's temple lightly, just a brush of fingertips, and looked at him like that, as if trying to remember John's face forever. "This is what I always wanted, you know that?"

"What is? Sulk in front of the fireplace? Yes. I knew that."

Sherlock looked so serene then it actually scared John.

"I love you."

"Good. I love you too, you know. Come. It's late."  
  
Sherlock let himself be dragged out of his chair but held on to John's hand. He likes that, John thought. He likes holding hands, he likes being led into the bedroom. He's smart and tough and dangerous and tall and strong and he likes to cuddle and he likes to hold my hand.

Sherlock stopped there and looked at him, just looked at him, and then he closed the distance and drew him into an embrace. Awfully cuddly today, John thought, but then Sherlock ran his hands down John's back and underneath his jumper. He had gotten better at undressing John. The jumper and T-shirt went, then his own shirt, and Sherlock buried his face against John's chest, almost clinging to him, drinking in his scent and kissing every part of him he could access, running his hands over John's back, always holding him as close as he could as if desperate to crawl into him. He catalogued John's body so thoroughly as if he'd never see and feel and taste him again.  
"Sherlock", John gasped when he felt Sherlock's hand around him. He stopped, but only to kiss him instead, gentle and restrained at first, but Sherlock was so good at this and John wanted him so much he invariably buried his hands in Sherlock's hair with an insistence he hadn't intended. Without breaking the kiss, they tumbled onto the bed, and now John tore at Sherlock to get closer, to feel his weight on him, and he arched his back when he felt Sherlock's hips against him, grinding once. Sherlock had gotten very good at that too, he thought when Sherlock produced lube from God knew where and lined them up, encircling them both with his impossibly long fingers. Too good maybe. John gritted his teeth because Sherlock took his time with him and held his gaze, easing up every time John felt close. There was no deceiving him, Sherlock read him with ease. John dug his fingers into Sherlock's writhing, sweat-slicked back and willed him to end it, coughed a desperate moan, but Sherlock's eyes held him and kept them both on the edge for so long John found himself begging for release, and then a little while longer. He watched him even as John came in a searing climax, and Sherlock's gaze faltered, his eyes widened a split second later as he soared into his own orgasm and all but collapsed onto John's chest.

 

* * *

"You're scaring me", said John, picking at random fluff stuck in Sherlock's hair. He lay sprawled across John, awake, but silent. "I know something's wrong."

Instead of an answer, Sherlock's chest shuddered with something that could have been a sob.

"Sherlock. Are you-" John's voice faltered, he shouldn't say that. Saying it makes it real. He took a deep breath. "Are you saying good-bye?"

At that, Sherlock lifted his head to look at John. "Good-bye? Why would I do that?"

"You've been different today." A terrible thought struck John. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"Second thoughts?" echoed Sherlock, bewildered.

"About us?"

Sherlock's gaze swept the room with its discarded clothing and the used flannel and the smell of sex and John and himself, John's things on the bedside table and two pillows and John, right there, naked and beautiful and warm and his. "About us?" Sherlock repeated.

"Now I'm terrified", John laughed.

"Why would I have second thoughts about us?"

"What is it then? You're lovely. You're only ever this lovely if something horrible is happening."

Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow and eyed John. "John Watson. We've been in a relationship for two months, and you're already complaining that I'm too lovely?"

John laughed, and that made Sherlock smile, which he loved so much it made him happy beyond redemption. He snuggled closer to Sherlock who was still propped up. Sherlock ran his fingers down John's hairline. "It's been far longer than two months. And I've had absolutely no reason to complain. So far. I want that known."

"So far, hm." And then Sherlock kissed him, and John almost forgot all about it. Almost.

"Tell me. I'm serious."

Sherlock's face fell. "I wanted this night for myself", Sherlock said tonelessly, got up, pulled on pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt and went into the living room. He hadn't been terrified before, John realized, but he was now. He put on boxers and a shirt and followed Sherlock, wondering why this felt so final.

 

  
Sherlock sat at the table holding a folder. John recalled he'd seen it before, hadn't paid attention to it. It'd been there for a while, what, days? Weeks? No. No, it had been days. Was Sherlock ill? Something grave? Terminal? He had been saying good-bye, not only today, but for several days now.  
John sat down and noticed he was holding his breath. The way they sat, the way he felt, he recognized that from somewhere. And then it dawned on him - at the clinic, when he had to tell someone he or she was dying, there was nothing they could do, that was that same look on Sherlock's face and the same freezing panic spreading through him now.  
  
Sherlock handed him the folder. By now, he fully expected to see an X-ray or something like that, colour prints from a CAT scan shouting death in glaring colours. What he saw, though, was a grainy colour picture of - a woman? A brunette wearing sunglasses and a red coat. He flipped the page and noticed several print-outs, surveillance reports. Threat assessments. Looked like South America. Maybe Central America.

"Okay. So. Is this where you're going?"

Apparently, that wasn't the response Sherlock had expected. He looked thunderstruck, actually. "John. Have you looked at the photo?"

"Yes?"

"Look again."

He did look again. A petite woman, brunette, cute face. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you'll have to be more specific. I'm not the genius, you are."

"John. That's Mary."  
  
The blood rushed to John's head then, buzzing in his ears. "Mary? You think that's Mary?"

"I do, and Mycroft thinks so too. And the CIA, actually."

"That's not her."

"I'm not sure you can say that after looking at a grainy low-res picture for two seconds."

"That is not her." And Sherlock's insistence actually made him angry.  
  
Sherlock didn't even try to hide his exasperation - he wanted it to be not-her as well, but he was also sensible enough to know that what he wished for might not necessarily reflect reality. He was about to explain that to John when he added: "Her posture is wrong. This woman slouches. Mary didn't slouch, not even when heavily pregnant."

"Well, maybe the fall-"

"She's the wrong height too. Wrong body type."

"Heels? Operation? They do wonders with-"

"That's not her!"

Sherlock backed off then, both physically and metaphorically. He didn't want it to be Mary. But could you ignore the facts?

"And tell your brother", John spit that last word, "That he doesn't know my late wife half as well as I did, even though he thinks he does. He doesn't know her like this! That's not her. And no, I'm not overreacting, I'm not imagining things, it's not wishful thinking because, you see, I do not actually wish for her to be dead. This is not her."  
During John's outburst, Sherlock had retreated as far as the kitchen would allow (and far, far into the kitchen cabinets of his own mind). He didn't need to hear that, he'd known it all along. Of course John wanted her back. They way he had grieved... Sherlock knew he couldn't ever replace Mary. That was painfully obvious to Sherlock. Wasn't it to John? Why did he have to belabour this?

"John", he said.

"Don't 'John' me! Does anyone in this family ever stay dead!"  
  
The silence that fell after those words was thick and stifling, and John regretted it immediately. "Sherlock..."

"No, it's okay. I know what you mean."

John slung his arms around him, burrowing into him, hiding his face against his neck. Reluctantly, Sherlock leaned in and hugged him back, and John's grip on him turned fierce and desperate.

"Nobody is ever going to take this away from us, hear me. Sherlock. Hear me. Nobody. Ever."

But Sherlock had come to learn that when you talked like that, your days were numbered.

John felt like shaking him, but instead he just hugged him harder. "You oaf. You keep this from me and you ruminate on it for days and then you sulk because you feel left alone with something I didn't even know about! Sherlock. Think." That he'd be the one to tell him that... "Think. Her body hasn't been found. Think of what that does to Mycroft. Of course he'll find women who look like her. During those first months... I saw her everywhere, Sherlock. And there'll be more until they find her body. I'm sure of that. This, this was only a matter of time."

When Sherlock didn't react, John rubbed his back. Almost like you'd calm a horse. But it did work. Like a skittish horse, he perked up. "John, I..."

"Come. We'll go back to bed, and tomorrow, we'll look at this. Together."

John tugged at his hand, but Sherlock wouldn't budge, stood there with his best hangdog expression. "I don't deserve you", he said.

"Too bad, you're stuck with me anyway", John said, fondly. "Drama queen. Come."

This time, he did move, and John put him back to bed, fluffed his pillow and tucked him in so dramatically exaggerated Sherlock had to laugh, and then he smoothed a hand over his hair. "You're mine now, Sherlock Holmes."

 

* * *

John couldn't sleep. He told himself it wasn't because of the folder, but of course, that wouldn't have been entirely true. And even though he had chided Sherlock for not telling him what he had worried about, he felt he couldn't discuss that with him either. It would scare him. He'd think John still missed Mary.  
The truth was, he did. Of course he did, and he didn't want her to be dead. He had loved her, would probably always love her. Despite all her flaws, of course, you didn't stop loving someone just because she turned out to be a psychopathic killer. You might be afraid of her and for her and disappointed and mad at her, but that didn't mean you didn't love her. Even dead, and he was certain she was, you still loved someone. But that didn't mean you couldn't love someone else just like that or more. John caught himself. Did he love Sherlock more? He hoped he'd never have to decide that. His love for him was different, of course it was. They'd known each other for a long time. He'd fallen for him a long time ago.  
  
Sherlock was wrong, he thought. All those nasty comments other people made were wrong. Sherlock wasn't a stop-gap. John hadn't defaulted to his former lover after Mary's death. The truth was that death did away with all the pretence. All the layers you had spent years acquiring, the fabrications you covered yourself with to appear larger and better, padding your core against all the inevitable falls and stumbles and life's ball-busting tackles. All the compromise and lies you glued to your soul so thoroughly you actually believed that was you. It all sloughed away when life dumped you into the furnace. And either you burnt with them, or you let go and came away naked. And only then, bare and naked and reduced to your core, you could see it all for what it was. Even yourself.  
John had stumbled around in blinding clarity for weeks after Mary's death, and though he had put on some padding since then, you had to, otherwise, life hurt too much, he saw no reason to pretend.  
  
Sherlock dreamt. And because Sherlock tended to treat John like a giant teddy bear, every twitch and whimper translated through John's body as well. With his long limbs surrounding John, it felt a little like being hugged by a huge greyhound who hunted in his sleep. Yes, he probably hunted. His legs twitched, and he grunted and sighed. John tried not to chuckle. That was Sherlock, always on the hunt, even in his sleep.  
John gently lifted the long hand that twitched in front of him and pressed a kiss on Sherlock's palm. Sherlock didn't wake, but he seemed to calm a bit. If he only understood. If he only accepted that John, as in all things, had made a decision and wouldn't change his mind. But then, that demanded a trust John knew Sherlock extended to others, but didn't expect from others. John smiled. He'd get there. Twenty, thirty years from now, maybe Sherlock would take John for granted after all. He snuggled a bit deeper into his personal greyhound's hunting dream and tucked Sherlock's hand underneath his own cheek. He'd probably tire of John and hunt for a twenty-five year old, long-legged beauty then. John did chuckle at that, which woke Sherlock, who gave a brief "Hmm?"

"You're dreaming, love."

"Oh."

"And that's nice."

"Hmhm."

"And I love you."

"Hmhm."

"And I'll never leave you."

"Mhm."

"And I love talking to you when you're asleep."

"Mhm?"

"Yes, I do."

"Mmhm."

"Of course. Good night to you too."


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, a miracle had occurred. Or rather, it attested to the graveness of the situation according to Sherlock that he had, indeed, cleared their table of all experiments, papers, notes, books, plates, knives, and anything that was not table. He had even scrubbed it clean. John thought of all the things they could do with that table now and swooned - for the first time, they would be able to actually have dinner there. And lunch. And tea. And breakfast. Speaking of which. He made tea and toast for both of them and then joined Sherlock, who fiddled with the closed envelope.

"Ready?"

"You know the drill, Sherlock. Breakfast first, work later."

The pained expression that always accompanied that never failed to amuse John.

 

Sherlock distributed the contents of the file between them. There wasn't much. Photographs, almost too blotchy to be of much use, taken with a long telephoto lens and at high ISO. All Sherlock could tell was that she was female, short, delicate, and probably between 30 and 40. But even that was a long shot. The data was even harder to make sense of. She'd been seen in Honduras, had been in touch with a weapons dealer and had moved on to Mexico and finally Florida. The bare bones of an existence made transparent by credit card transactions.  
  
Sherlock regarded John. He seemed very calm. Eyed the evidence sceptically, his head tilted to one side. Knitted his brow in concentration. He was good at this. Professional. He kept a distance Sherlock found very hard to achieve. Eventually, John stopped reading. Their eyes met, Sherlock tried to read in John's what he thought of this mess and failed.

"What do you think?" Sherlock said.

"I still think it's not her."

"Why would someone pretend it's her?"

"Does someone pretend it's her?"

"Mycroft seems to think so."

"Do you think he has more data than this?

"Maybe. Unlikely, though. He seems to rely on his allies."

"Who happen to be her former employers."

"True."

"Sherlock, am I the only one who thinks this stinks?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately. The evidence was meagre. If he hadn't had Mycroft's additional assessment, he would have dismissed the thought right away. "John... I know it's painful, but... do you think she could have survived?"  
  
John thought back on the day at the dam. He didn't remember a lot, actually. He recalled bits and pieces with intense clarity. Other pieces were entirely missing. But he did remember seeing her fall. He recalled the sickening thunk of body against concrete, then, much later, the splash. He knew it had been over fifty metres. Could she have survived? He knew what effect such a fall had on a human body. He had thought about that every waking minute for months. Had tried not to imagine her body broken and torn and her pain and her despair and had failed.  
He became aware Sherlock was still waiting for his answer. "I don't think so."

"What would have had to happen for her to survive?"

"She slammed into the wall. I believe she was dead before she hit the river below."

"What if she hadn't been dead then?"

"She would have needed help, right away. Someone to get her out of the water. And get her into a hospital. But pregnant - the child..." John knew his voice cracked, and he hated himself for it. He took a deep breath and continued: "There is no way the child... and she would have... she would have..."  
Only when he felt Sherlock's arms around him did he realize he was breathing too fast and gulping down air, doubling over and choking. He let himself fall into Sherlock's embrace and rested his head against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock kissed his hair and rocked him gently like he always did, and it was warm and safe here and he could mourn if he had to.  
  
It never lasted long. John still grieved. Of course he did. Sherlock knew he had to accept that, and it never lasted long. John pulled himself together, straightened himself, and was back. They were just like before, only one of them was red-eyed.

"What's the plan?" John asked.

"I'm not sure yet. What do you think?"

"Me?"

"I think you should decide."

John shrugged. "Fair enough." He poured more tea and drank half a mug before he answered: "I think we shouldn't do anything."

"You can't possibly mean that."

"Ha! Now you don't want my opinion after all."

"That's not it, I only-"

"I think we shouldn't do anything because I am convinced it's not Mary. She would have needed help below the dam. But you told me yourself that there were only eight agents on site. Five where we were, three on the other side. We went over satellite images for God's sake. Remember? Of course you remember. It's not her. So who wants us to think it's her, and why?

"Mycroft?"

"Or the CIA? Or whoever sent those goons."

"Why would-"

"Exactly. Finally. You're thinking again. God, Sherlock, I missed you."

"You do have a point... If this is bait and we don't bite... they'll throw us another bone. Something with a little more meat this time."

John thought of Sherlock's greyhound dream and smiled. Sherlock was off on a tangent now, stalking, oblivious, veering off into monologue. "If it is Mary, doing nothing won't hurt. If it is her, and she wants us to find her, she'll make herself known. If it is something Mycroft has hatched, doing nothing will confuse him. And if it's something we're meant to follow up on, whoever is behind this will show his hand. We'll increase surveillance on the flat, tap the phones, increase security. Just in case. If someone's not patient enough. This is brilliant. You are brilliant, John." With that, he spun him around and pressed a kiss on his head, "I'm going to text Mycroft."

* * *

The next day, when John came home from work, Sherlock was gone. That in itself wasn't unusual, he'd been away on his own all the time, but that had been before. Ever since they'd moved back in together, Sherlock always left a note. There was no note this time. Which surely meant he had just dropped down to Tesco's. Or simply forgotten about it.  
John tried not worry. But he did, and when night fell, he was worried sick. He tried to call his mobile, but it went straight to voice-mail. He texted, but Sherlock didn't text back. Of course, the best explanation was that he was out of range. But where had he gone to elude mobile reception? Underground?  
What did you do when your partner didn't come home at night? Call his friends (Sherlock didn't have any. Well, apart from Molly. And Janine. But he didn't stay there overnight, did he?). Call the police (And tell them what? My boyfriend isn't home yet, I'm worried? Like that would work.). Lestrade? (He'd call an airstrike on Sherlock's enemies, just in case.) Family then. Call Mycroft. John wasn't quite that worried yet though. Besides, they were both adults, weren't they. Responsible. Sherlock could take care of himself.  
He made himself a sandwich and ate in front of the television, something he hadn't done since... he couldn't even remember. Before moving in with Sherlock for the first time probably. Curled up in his chair, he tried very hard to find something interesting to watch and ended up channel-hopping. But it had been a long day at the clinic, and he was bone-weary.  
  
He washed, undressed, lay down in bed. And then he waited, and it took him a moment to realize he waited for Sherlock to finish what he was doing and join him. He'd never slept in Sherlock's bed alone before. That shouldn't make a difference, he was certain he was welcome, it was still the same bed, just - empty. He thought he should probably enjoy the glorious acreage, but it felt empty, and that was that. He tried changing sides, crawled over to Sherlock's side of the bed and noticed the pillow smelled faintly of Sherlock, and before he knew what he was doing, he hugged it and pressed it to his face, inhaling his scent and missing him, missing him so terribly it hurt. "He'll be back, you idiot", he told himself. No use acting like a lovesick teenager. But in the end, he got up, Sherlock's pillow still in hand, fetched his mobile and Sherlock's dressing gown and took it all to bed, curling around the dressing gown and the pillow and clutching the mobile, waiting for a call or a text, until he fell asleep.  
  
Sherlock hadn't come home during the night. John woke up on the wrong side of an empty bed. Lay there and stared at the ceiling. Listened to the silence and his own slow heartbeat. It was still dark, the alarm clock hadn't even rung yet. He got up anyway. Made tea. Showered. Had breakfast.  
  
Stared at the empty chair and shook his head, just once. There had to be a reason things like this happened to John. That people left him alone. There was only one reason he could think of, one unifying factor: John himself. Somehow, he called this upon himself. Deserved it. Brought out the worst in people.  
  
He sat in his chair until dawn broke and then some more, unmoving, unseeing. He felt he was floating, untethered, curled into a tight ball and drifting off and trying not to touch the walls around him because they were sheer ice, and if he touched them too often, he'd freeze to death. He sat there until the clinic called, and he told them a story they didn't buy, but they recognized the abyss in his voice and understood and told him to stay at home until he felt better, and that was it.  
  
By noon, he had hardened enough to commit himself to never let himself be fooled again.  
  
Come evening, he blinked. And blinked again. And just like that, the _clarity_ was back. He suddenly knew with blinding certainty that he'd been a depressed idiot and a fool and that Sherlock probably needed his help somewhere out there. And that he had to get going, and instead of sitting here and feeling sorry for himself, he should find out what the hell had happened to his partner. And then, finally, he picked up the phone and called Mycroft.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had left the flat soon after John had left for work. He hadn't packed anything really, hadn't thought he needed anything beyond a wallet, his laptop, and his coat. He'd taken the train to Wales and then rented a car and driven to Elan Valley. Unfinished business, he told himself. No need to bother John with it, he fooled himself. Just a day trip, there and back again. He had to see.  
A year ago, almost to the day, Mary had apparently jumped to her death from one of the dams. Back then, he'd been too preoccupied to see much, and that had been a mistake. Doubt ate away at him and stared at him every time he saw John's face, saw him look up to him with that much emotion. Nobody had ever looked at him like that. Nobody ever would. And he knew he didn't deserve that. Not if everything they had was a lie, and probably not even if it wasn't, because seriously, he hadn't even deserved his friendship. It had come to him like a stray cat that shows up at your house and curls up on your sofa and you have no idea why it had chosen you over all the other houses in your street. It'd simply been there one day. And he knew he couldn't keep it, and when it had turned into something else over the years, he had known for a fact he certainly couldn't have _that_.  
And so when Mycroft had come along with that folder in his hand, he'd accepted the truth. John wasn't his to keep. The thought felt like slipping into a pair of well-worn shoes, comforting and familiar. It didn't even really matter if Mary was still alive.

Then why was he here? Because he'd learned early on that profound delusions, especially those about being loved or being allowed to love, were best uprooted as soon as you became aware of them. He was here to find evidence Mary had survived. And then, finally, he'd go home, and John would go home, and he'd close the door on all of this, on love and friendship and evenings spent on the sofa, burrowed into John so thoroughly he couldn't tell where one began and the other ended. He'd revert to - whatever he'd been before. It'd be simple and clean and fitting. Surely John would want that.

At the dam, he looked up at the wall with dread. He'd do this for John. He'd do this.

Sherlock cursed under his breath. He only had very little daylight left and a lot to do. He left the official path and clambered down the slope to reach the foot of the dam where the river left the artificial lake. The dam wall itself towered above him, almost sixty metres tall. Quite a fall. It did curve outward as well, just a little. Enough for a body to hit the wall.  
The river ran swiftly, and he knew it was very cold, fed by the power station outlet on the very bottom of the dam where the water rarely ran warmer than four degrees Celsius. Certainly not in late February. He picked up a pine cone and tossed it into the stream. It was immediately swallowed by the water and bobbed only once, already very far downstream. Swift indeed. Her body must have been carried downstream fast and then into another one of these lakes. It could take years for her to wash up on the shore. Any help she might have had would have had to be very quick about it, not only because she'd have been unconscious and would have started to drown, but also because she would have gone into hypothermia very fast. And then, they would have had to reach her before she was too far down.

He glanced up at the wall. Up there somewhere he thought he could see the area where a lot of blood had been found, but it was so far up he'd have to rappel down from the wall to find it, and there wasn't much evidence left, if any. It'd been a year. But he had brought his laptop. There had been pictures.

Back on the dam, he tried to recall exactly who had stood where. Three agents emerging from behind this stall by the road. He remembered passing them on the way up to the cottage, and he wondered if he should have called in the locals, they'd been eager to help, they'd wanted to help the nice doctor to find his wife. They would have been useless though. Five agents had waited up here. Had probably searched the village first. Had they found Mary - what exactly would they have done? He still had no idea. Probably taken her back.  
Here, he'd told John not to go after his wife. Would Mary still be alive if he hadn't told him that? Possibly. Here, Mary had been when she'd seen them. John had been subdued here, and Sherlock a little closer to Mary. He tried to recall the scene, where his head had been. To be honest, he hadn't been able to see her fall. He'd seen her climb the wall and jump. He'd heard the sickening crunch of head against stone. And he had assumed she'd fallen to her death. Had that been a mistake?

He'd have to look at the photographs again.

But first, he had things to do up here. In the wan light of late February dusk, it shouldn't have been easy to find the cottage she had used to hide her stash, but it was. He could have sleep-walked there. It had been cleared and rented out again, of course it had, but he had to see it anyway. He passed the exact spot where he had told John not to run after his wife. Tried not to look at it too closely but had to in the end. That had been the decisive moment, he knew that now. If he hadn't told John to stay quiet, he'd have called out, and Mary would have seen them. Would have run to them. They'd be able to defend her. She'd be alive. She would have trusted them to protect her, wouldn't she. They would have, both of them. Surely, she must have known that.  
  
The lock was a miserable affair that took him two seconds to pick. The cottage felt chilly and unused, but he could see the appeal - a wide, spacious, living room with an open fireplace and several wide sofas, soft woollen rugs folded neatly on all of them, waiting for someone to keep warm. Sherlock stood for a moment and tried to imagine John and Mary, their first vacation together. Happy. Hopeful. And then Sherlock had come back. That's what it always boiled down to, didn't it?

Sherlock gave the room and the memories one last glance and stepped into the kitchen. They'd repaired the wall, but he could still see where Mary had carefully removed several stones in the natural stone wall that looked like a left-over from the original cottage, and had stashed her gear behind. Not all too ingenious, he'd thought at that point, but he wondered if he could have spotted it. Probably not. She'd been a pro, you had to hand it to her.

It was fully dark when he returned to his car. One look at the watch told him he wouldn't make it in time for the train back, and he was too tired to drive all the way home. He'd find a B&B and turn in.

Belatedly, in the overstuffed common room of a lousy B&B, he remembered to check his mobile only to find the battery had died. The reception had been non-existent most of the day, and it had probably drained the battery faster than usual. John. He'd be worried. He hadn't left a note because he hadn't known what to write. "Have to go to Wales without you, see you tomorrow"? John would have been furious. Sherlock smiled at that. He would have been furious and then they'd have made up and shagged and cuddled and in the morning, Sherlock would have made him bacon and eggs by way of apology.  
But he'd be worried now, right? Had he called? How long had the battery been dead? He looked around for a phone in the B&B but then remembered how late it already was. He'd call him tomorrow. First thing in the morning.

Back in his room, he called up the photographs some brave soul had taken back at the dam. They were huge and very detailed. Twenty-two megapixels of blood and hair and what looked like brain matter and was later confirmed to be brain matter. Positive DNA identification.

Sherlock admitted that was hard to fake. How would he have done such a thing? Falsify the records. Smear the wall with blood and brain, both human, shortly before the jump, because otherwise, the lab would have noticed the decay. He'd have jumped far and wide. Hoping he didn't break his neck. Hoping he didn't drown or die of exposure. Or, maybe... She hadn't jumped at all. Or rather, not far. Had had someone on site with a platform. Something he hadn't noticed when they'd approached the dam from below. She'd have needed a lot of help, which made this... an extraction, not an assassination attempt. Plausible? Occam's Razor told him something else: That she'd jumped and died.

As time wore on, he spun increasingly complicated scenarios that required a large amount of help and ended in Mary not being dead and him not being responsible for the death of John's wife and unborn child. He sat back and stapled his fingers and stared at the wall of the dingy little room until his eyes hurt and morning broke.

* * *

Sherlock limped home late at night the next day, unshaven, tired and, he guessed, slightly smelly. Baker Street glowed like a beacon, John must be home, the curtains were closed and the lights were on. On the street, he took a moment and looked. He'd passed so many homes during his trip and had felt that horrible attraction you sometimes feel when on the road and tired, the urge to be with those other people behind the doors, wondering if he could simply step into their lives, if they'd be easier. But the windows above him, those felt like home, and the attraction was welcome.

Only he wasn't. John must have heard him come in. He sat in his chair, ostensibly reading a book, and he didn't look up when Sherlock came in. He didn't react at all. Sherlock inched closer. "Hello, John", he tried.  
John turned a page. "You stink."

"Yes. Sorry. I didn't think to -"

"You didn't, did you. Think. Not at all."

Sherlock didn't know how to react. He ran several scenarios, but in the end, he decided on the easiest one. "I'll go and have a shower then."

"Yes please."

When he returned, several things had happened: John was gone, the door to his bedroom was locked, and someone, presumably John, had dumped his bedding on the sofa. It took Sherlock a while to parse that this probably meant he wasn't welcome in John's bed. So much for make-up sex then.

Even though all the other parts of his "John finds out and is mad at me" scenario hadn't played out quite as he'd hoped they would, Sherlock did make bacon and eggs the next morning. The smell and the (very exaggerated) noise drove John from his den, and he sat down at the kitchen table the way Sherlock liked him best: Slightly grumpy and spikey-haired. With a flourish, he presented him with bacon and eggs and toast and his sad excuse for tea. John glared at the perfectly fluffy eggs and the crisp bacon and then at Sherlock, who beamed at him expectantly.

"Sherlock. Do you know why I'm angry?"

"Because I left without telling you?"

"Yes. That. And because you didn't leave a note. And because you didn't call. And because you didn't even have the nerve to drop me a text-"

"-my mobile was-"

"And because you could have found a landline because you must have known I'd be worried sick. And because you shouldn't have gone without me because this is a matter that affects both of us. And because I actually called your brother to find out where you were because somehow, he knows and I don't. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I have no idea why you think this doesn't concern me, why you think you can go off on your own like that. Last night, I imagined you'd been hit by a car or killed by a crazy cabbie or stabbed by some second-rate criminal or fallen into the Thames and gone! And then I imagined how I would kill you when you came back. Because I'm bloody angry!"

"I get that."

"You could have texted for God's sake!"

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"You can't just go away like that!"

"I won't, ever again. Sorry."

"Do you know what it would do to me!"

That did give Sherlock pause, because he didn't, really. He didn't think it would do much to anyone if he vanished. He might have to rethink that. John stared at him as the bacon wilted and the toast turned soggy. Sherlock thought maybe he'd have to ask - John knew his way around a relationship much better than Sherlock.

"Frankly, I-"

"What!"

"I don't know what it would do to you. I don't. What would it do to you?"

At that, John jumped up so fast he toppled the chair, and he glared at him in wordless rage. He bared his teeth and glowered, and now, Sherlock was scared. He thought it possible he'd hit him, and he had no defences when it came to John. "You", snarled John. Then he caught himself and closed his eyes. Straightened his back. He was shaking now. "It would kill me", he said simply, turned around, and went back into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Sherlock approached the door with a caution usually reserved for crime scenes. The bedroom was dim, the curtains closed. John was a still lump on the bed, his face turned away from Sherlock. Cautiously, Sherlock sat down on the bed, his back against the headboard. John didn't acknowledge his presence.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you." The words were very big in the stillness of the room.

"And I'm sorry I didn't tell you.

"I thought I had to see for myself.

"My battery died. The reception out there was so bad it drained the battery, and I didn't bring a cable.

"And that stupid B&B didn't have a telephone.

"I missed you.

"I'm serious. I don't know what it would do to you. I keep thinking you'd be better off. Everyone would be better off.

"But I can tell you what losing you would do to me. Would you like to hear?

"I'll tell you anyway. It'd take away the only thing worth living for. The only thing I've lived for all these years. Not that you're a thing. You know what I mean. I probably wasn't entirely human before I met you. I have no idea what I was. If I was anything. And I think I might still be changing. But without you, I don't think there'd be much to me anymore. And the thought that you could leave...

"I'm sure you will someday though. Because I keep disappointing you. It's just that I'm not very good at this. I haven't had a lot of practise.

"But frankly, neither are you. You are a very angry person, John Watson. But I still love you more than anything in the world. And I can't possibly comprehend why you're still with me."

He fell silent. He wasn't even sure John listened. Maybe he wasn't even awake. He watched him, strong and angry as he was, short and compact. Broken and healed and broken and healed. And then something significant occurred to him, and he said: "Is that my dressing gown you're hugging?"

At first, there was no response, but John's head twitched almost imperceptibly. Sherlock was about to give up when John gave a muffled: "Yes."

"But... I'm right here."

At that, John tackled him so sudden and with such force Sherlock couldn't tell if he was being attacked or hugged. He went for "hugged" when he ended up snuggled close to John and locked in a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry", John whispered. "I was just so worried."

"No, I'm sorry. I've been an idiot."

"Am I an angry person?"

"Sorry to break it to you, but..."

"I'm so sorry."

"I deserved a bit of anger."

"Yes, you did. Not that much maybe."

"You do have quite a temper on you, John."

"Did you find out anything useful?"

"Nothing we didn't already know."

"Did you see what you had to see?"

"John, I-"

"You'll have to believe me one day."

"I do believe you."

"No, you don't."

"I think you honestly believe I'm going to be enough for you. I just think you're delusional. For staying with me."

"You idiot", John said and kissed him, fiercely. "You utter prat." Another kiss, softer this time. "Of course I am delusional."

"But why-"

"I'm in love with you, that's all" John kissed him for real then, which shut him up effectively, and Sherlock found himself kissing back, arousal suddenly wiping away all the questions he might have had about that. And maybe it was part of the answer after all, John, mad at him and missing him and angry at him and then holding him so close it hurt not his body, but a part of his self nobody but John had ever touched. He ached for him in every way possible. For a while, they lay curled into each other, trading kisses back and forth that only gradually went from soft and tender to something else, and when they made love, it was slow and languorous and without any urgency.


	4. Chapter 4

For a few days, nothing happened at all. It was like before what Sherlock internally called The Mary Scare. Maybe they were a bit more careful around each other, but that couldn't be a bad thing now could it. A case came in, and Sherlock dashed off in a flurry of coat tails and enthusiasm, came back a few seconds later, kissed John and told him not to stay up and then kissed him again and told him he loved him and he'd be back and no, he wouldn't buy milk on the way and it was probably murder, John, and he really had to go, and kissed him again. Lestrade, at the office, commented that he was late in the crudest way, which elicited lewd remarks Sherlock... well, had to admit found the tiniest bit flattering. John had stayed up and forced him to eat a late supper, which foiled Sherlock's plan to sneak the six cartons of milk he'd bought into the house unnoticed, and Sherlock concluded they both showed signs of being the happiest men on earth.  
  
Which, of course, was exactly when the letter arrived.  
  
When Sherlock came home, John's brave smile told him all he had to know. The bone had been thrown, and it had a lot of meat on it. The little girl in the photographs couldn't be more than a year old, and it had that same white-blond hair and those same blue eyes. The photographs showed the woman pushing the stroller, the little girl squalling and red-faced. Then a close-up of her, wide-eyed and chewing on her little fist. Then on a beach, both of them, taken with a telephoto lens through intense heat haze, a half-familiar skyline in the background. Then the girl on the beach, staring up at the lens, obviously scared and about to cry.  
  
Sherlock was out of words. "That is supremely cruel", he said finally.  
  
"I know it's not her, Sherlock." John sounded so resigned Sherlock wanted to hug him, do something to make him feel better. But he recalled who had been instrumental in John losing his child, and he kept quiet, he just looked at him and wondered if this would be the final straw.  
  
"I'm so sorry, John."

"What for?"  
  
For everything. For coming back and wanting you. For killing Mary and your child. He just stood there, though, and the moment passed.  
  
John pointed at the photos. "You should probably check for prints."  
  
There were none. John suggested bringing them to Lestrade for another thorough check, but Sherlock knew he was better at this than Anderson or Donovan, and there were no prints. Or any other tangible clues apart from the most glaring ones. Those were the ones he wasn't really interested in, because those were the ones planted for him to find. He'd deal with them later. First, he tried to find clues that had been left unintentionally, but whoever had sent the letter had been very thorough. The envelope was a nondescript standard envelope printed in the billions, nobody had licked any stamps or dropped eye-lashes or even left a smudged mark anywhere. That told him one thing: Whoever had sent this was a professional.  
The envelope was posted in Miami, Florida. That wasn't surprising - the skyline behind the crying baby had turned out to be Miami.  
  
"I wonder why they didn't simply send us tickets", he said, more to himself.  
  
John stood. "Right. Okay. Sherlock, listen, I'm late for work, I have to run." He pressed a brief kiss on Sherlock's head and didn't wait for a reply.  


* * *

"This doesn't change anything", John said finally, into the brooding silence. Sherlock had lit a fire in the fireplace and had broken out the whisky, concluding tea wouldn't be enough to dissolve the knot in his stomach. He didn't answer, didn't know what to say.

"It's not her", John continued.

"She's the right age."

"Right. There can't be that many one-year-old girls in the world. Can there. Sherlock. Listen to yourself."

Sherlock watched the amber liquid swirl and thought about nothing for a while. The silence stretched. John brooded.

"It changes everything", Sherlock said.

"No, it doesn't." John shook his head decisively.

Sherlock set his glass down and stapled his fingers, watching John, which never failed to make John nervous because it invariably indicated a speech of some significance. He braced himself, and yes, here it was.

"It changes everything because this is a child. Could be your child. You've always wanted children. I've seen your reaction to Mary's pregnancy - there it was, finally, living proof you were able to lead an ordinary life like anyone else despite all your afflictions and peculiarities. Fatherhood. That is something nobody can take away from you. You might have divorced Mary later, who knows, but you would have always been someone's father. You are a doctor and a soldier. Values are important for you, values like continuity, courage, sacrifice. Family is all that, wrapped into one. An ideal you strive for even though it's an ill-fitting suit you've put on. You chafe because there's that other part of you unfit for Suburbia. But not because you didn't want to be a father."

John bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, but Sherlock couldn't stop.

"Losing Mary is one thing, but losing your child is something else entirely, is losing your future, disrupting your ties with both future and past. Means failing society and yourself. And it signifies losing an innocence you would do anything to protect because that is what you are, a protector and a father. So, yes, I think this changes everything."

  
John had sat back in his chair and watched Sherlock as from afar. "Nice analysis, Sherlock. I'm never quite sure if I should be flattered or offended."

Sherlock took a sip to avoid having to answer.

"You missed a trait though. Acceptance. It's something I have learned. It's new."

"That sounds resigned."

"No. That's not it at all."

"Maybe I don't want you to accept this."

"Don't you think that's for me to decide?"

"It just sounds so..." Sherlock made a vague gesture, half desperation, half exasperation. "It's so sad, John."

"Yes, but it happened. It's sad. It's a horrible thing for all involved. But that was then. This is now. If I can accept it, can't you too?"

That remark puzzled Sherlock. "Do you think this is about me?"

John knocked back the rest of his whisky, set the glass down and smiled. "Yes. That's what I think."

"You'd be mistaken."

"No, I wouldn't be. I know you. You work that way."

"I think if there's even a remote chance that's her, you need to find out."

"Sherlock. I'm not responsible for your guilt. Can't help you with it."

"I don't feel guilty."

"And you've never been able to lie to me."

Sherlock decided to pour them both another glass.

"Never. You know why? Because you don't put on your persona for me. You're basically naked." John toasted and drank.

"Of course you feel guilty. Two people had to die so you can get what you wanted. Right? That's what you think."

Sherlock didn't know what to say, didn't even dare to move.

"But you have to get over that yourself. All I can say is no. You're not responsible for this."

For a while, they were silent. Then John took a deep breath and said: "Mary jumped and killed my child." He emptied his glass and stood. "It's late. I'm going to bed."  


* * *

It was funny, Sherlock thought, how some things were better said in darkness.

"I think you need to find her." It was John who said it, not Sherlock. "I think we should go to Florida."

"It's probably a trap."

"Yes. A good one. Nice bait. You do realize that, don't you?"

"Realize what?"

"That it's for you?"

"The trap or the bait?"

"Both."

Sherlock hadn't, so far. It was an uncomfortable thought that someone knew him well enough to know that he felt guilty enough to take the bait.

"I hear Florida is nice in February."

"I could use a vacation."

  
"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm trying."

"I know. Come here."

Sherlock snapped to him like a paper-clip to a magnet, and John had a brief moment of terror when all those limbs poked his ribs and skinned his shins before Sherlock settled, head against his chest, burrowed into John and underneath John's chin, arms and legs folded, minimizing his surface.

"That can't be comfortable", John observed into the crab-like structure his lover had turned into. When Sherlock didn't react, he draped an arm around him anyway.

"It is, actually", came a muffled statement from Sherlock.

John laughed, and Sherlock smiled. John was right, he thought before he drifted away. This is now.


	5. Chapter 5

Miami was bright and humid after London's February drizzle, and the airport provided a unique challenge for Sherlock: The Foreverglades, words on the black terrazzo floor describing the Everglades, a stream of consciousness trickling into Sherlock's mind as he walked and read and finally saw nothing but the words, whispering them as they jumped at him and wound their way into him and made him long for saw grass he'd never even seen. The words unfailingly caught his attention and didn't let go, and then stopped him in his tracks, unable to walk on. John took his hand and led him through the crowded airport while Sherlock read the words with a yearning that puzzled him because natural beauty wasn't high on his list.

  
"Where do we go?"

"Miami Beach, obviously. They were last seen there", Sherlock replied. He had cranked up the rental's AC to accommodate for the coat he insisted on wearing - part of his armour, John knew and accepted. With sunglasses on, his British pallor and the heavy woollen coat, he looked a bit like a vampire on a road trip, and John turned to face the window and grinned.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Uh, nothing."

"I can see you in the wing mirror. Something's killing you. Spit it out."

"Nothing", John managed, biting his hand. "I was just-" which was when he burst into laughter, "I was just thinking we should buy you some nice swimming trunks while we're here."

"And that's funny."

John couldn't get a hold on himself, couldn't answer. Sherlock huffed. "Are you laughing at me?"

"No, no, it's just, it's just - your albedo would be off the scale. Visible from the moon on a bright night."

"The albedo scale, by definition, ends at one."

"They'd have to invent a new one for your butt alone. That one has never seen the sun."

"Unlike yours, huh."

"We'll work on your tan while we're here. Maybe we can raise you to 'pinkish'."

"'Pinkish' is not on the albedo scale at all."

"No, that's on the international scale of British tans."

"John!" But Sherlock cracked, John could see, he bit his lips, and his nostrils flared in suppressed laughter.

"Oh God, Sherlock, you'll be the typical Brit abroad. And you know what?"

"What?"

"I'm catching up. After shagging you tonight, I'll be two-continents Watson", he said and laughed first at Sherlock's wide-eyed shock at the turn of the conversation and then his genuine laughter.

  
The plane had arrived in the late afternoon, and after checking in, there wasn't any daylight left. It'd been a long day, and after his giggling fit, John just crashed. He noticed Sherlock rummaging around in the hotel room, but eventually, he came to bed, and John just snuggled up to him. "Sorry. No territory expansion tonight", he mumbled, his nose in Sherlock's T-shirt. Sherlock ruffled his hair and kissed him and deposited John's head on his shoulder. "You know what", he said, "This is out first vacation as a couple."

That give John pause, and he opened one eye. "Vacation?"

"Of course. Couldn't be more perfect. A popular destination, a mystery to solve, and you here with me."

"Why, thanks."

"I can almost..."

John waited for him to carry on, but when that didn't happen, he opened the other eye as well. "You can almost what?"

"Forget why I'm here."

"You're here for the mystery. Oh. And because of that guilt delusion of yours."

"Hm."

"Okay. Why are you here?"

"To find your wife, John."

Suddenly wide awake, John stared at him, aghast. "We came all this way to return me to my rightful owner? That what you mean?"

"Well, if you put it like that-"

"Don't I have a say in that as well?"

"You'll want to - wait, what do you think you're doing?"

"Sleeping on the couch", snapped John and grabbed the duvet. Turns out they only had one king size bedspread between the two of them, but John was so angry he didn't care. He flopped down on the sofa with righteous indignation and turned his back to Sherlock. Which resulted in the heavy bedspread slipping off him and exposing his lower back, which made him feel vulnerable, and so he turned around, just to see Sherlock sit on the bed, cross-legged, shaking his head. "And you call me a drama queen."

That did it. John leaped to his feet and marched over to the bed, crossed his arms and bared his teeth. "Shut up. You. Shut up. You think you know what I feel, but you don't. You think I'd ditch you and run back to Mary if she's still alive. I chose you for God's sake! Over and over and over I chose you!" The last remark he shouted, exasperated, hands stretched out in a desperate plea. "Won't you please just let me in!"

Sherlock looked genuinely shocked and didn't move, didn't say anything, just sat there, mouth agape, and looked at him, just looked at him. Before Mary's death, he wouldn't have closed the distance between them. Would have let Sherlock figure it out, would have let him stew. But now, the sight tugged at John because he knew of all the crippling insecurities floating around in Sherlock's head, and he didn't want to add to them. And so he dropped his hands and forced himself to relax and shook his head, just once. "Let me just-", he wet his lips, hunting for the right words. "Let me be the one for you."

"You are the one for me", Sherlock said hoarsely. "There isn't ever going to be anyone else for me."

"Don't say that. You're-"

"It's true. Never wanted anyone."

John bit his lip, trying to force back tears. God, he was getting emotional. Must be the jet-lag. He squinted, forced the words out. "But if... if I go away. I mean if I die. You promise me. You promise me you'll go on. Because otherwise, otherwise I can't bear this. I want you to..."

"No, John. I won't go on. When you die, that's the end of it. There won't be anyone after you."

"You can't say that!

"I just did. I know this to be true."

John wiped his eyes with his palm and took a deep breath. "Well. You know what. That's why. I mean, I did move on. And you can't. Don't even understand the concept." He nodded, his face contorting into a pained smile. "That's why. I understand now. But I'm different. I have moved on. And now I'm here. And when you die, maybe I'll move on. Might not, I don't know. But I'm here! Sherlock!"

Even from the other end of a dimly lit hotel room, John could see Sherlock's jaw work, could see him bite back tears, could see his eyes turn red, and he couldn't stand the distance anymore. He trudged over like a beaten dog seeking forgiveness and hung his head against Sherlock's thin shoulder. Sherlock turned his head in and clung to him in turn, crying silently. John let him, stroked his back and felt his own eyes sting and just stopped fighting it. "Don't push me away", John whispered, and Sherlock just shook his head vehemently.

"Your shirt is getting wet", Sherlock observed after a while, voice very brave and stable. "Not all of it is tears. I might have drooled."

John couldn't help it, he had to laugh. "That's okay. Yours is, too."

"Drool?"

"Mostly tears."

"Romantic."

John kissed him then, a tender little "It's all good"-kiss, and then he went to fetch the bedspread. He tucked Sherlock in in the exaggerated way that always made Sherlock laugh and then let himself be hugged like a teddy bear, which always made John laugh.

"I'll buy you swimming trunks", John promised, half asleep. "Blue. With birds."

"Mmhm", said Sherlock.

"And flip-flops."

"No you won't."

"And a shirt. And a floppy hat."

"Uh."

"And you'll wear all of that because you love me."

"Hmhm."


	6. Chapter 6

"You're sticking out like a sore thumb", John observed. "But I assume that's the whole point?"  
  
John sweated in the mild Miami warmth even though he didn't wear a suit and a coat. How Sherlock pulled this off, he had no idea. But he guessed it was something like leaving his calling card, his way of announcing he was here and ready to nip at the bait. They still had no idea what this was about.  
  
Sherlock didn't grace him with an answer and soldiered on. This was the third row of cabs they'd frequented, the third row of cabbies that, when facing a missing child and wife (that was their story), ranged from caring and very helpful to gruff and impatient and finally to not being able to understand English at all and Spanish only marginally. Sherlock hunted on, though, with dogged determination. John wondered why Sherlock was the determined one, not John. Especially after their talk last night. But he should have known words wouldn't sway Sherlock. He knew that. But he had no idea what would. And so he followed him, as usual.  
The beach was bright and crowded and - wonderful really. While Sherlock shoved photographs into the faces of local ice cream vendors and pool boys, John ditched his shoes and socks and rolled up his trouser legs and walked along the shore line where small waves lapped at his feet. The sand was a yellowish white and the water very clear, and small fish darted away when he waded through the water, which, by the way, had the perfect temperature. No wonder this was so popular.  
  
He assessed the row of hotels facing the beach and thought he'd really like to find a quiet spot here and stay a few days. But afterwards. After whatever Sherlock thought he had to do here. John didn't share his enthusiasm for the case - even though he missed Mary and his child, as much as you can miss an unborn, which he found was plenty, he truly believed them dead, and he wished Sherlock would just stop this wild goose chase and go home with him. What they had was great, was perfect really. He loved Sherlock. Sherlock was extraordinary, and even though that drove him up the walls sometimes, he wished he'd never change. Thinking about him always made him smile, always, and he often found himself in the checkout line thinking about Sherlock's hands or his hair or his eyes or something he had said or something he hadn't said, and when he caught his reflection in the windows, he was grinning like a madman. On comparison, his relationship with Mary, though she'd been a professional killer, had been outright ordinary.  
  
John looked up and found himself a considerable distance down the beach. Of Sherlock, there was no sign. He looked back to where he had last seen him and thought someone with a black coat must really stand out between all the beach-goers with swimming trunks and bikinis, but he couldn't see him. Frowning, he circled back, weaving through beach huts and ice cream stands and families with small children building sand castles and beach beauties playing something resembling tennis. The deep sand made running difficult, and he thought he'd better not attract attention, but it was hard not to break into a run.

Ahead, something else caught his attention then, he saw something he found vaguely familiar, a short woman, brown hair, a red towel wrapped around her shoulders, picking up a toddler in the distant way he'd seen inexperienced nurses handle a child. He sped up as much as he dared and noticed she left her bag on the beach where they had sat. She walked fast, but he caught up, now shouldering through people without any regard for their complaints, eyes fixed ahead. He was almost on her, just a few metres away, when she turned around and almost bumped into him, smiled at him in surprise, then apologetically and said: "Sorry, hun. Random change of direction. Forgot my bag." It wasn't Mary. Of course it wasn't. Just a random stranger on the beach, and the child was a boy and smelled like he needed a change, badly, which explained her awkward pose.  
  
John caught his breath and looked around. He had no idea where he was. The hotels all looked the same, the beach seemed featureless - it was incredible repetitive with the same people and the same vendors and the same sand and the same gulls everywhere, and he had no idea how far he had gone. He knew he could just walk up to a hotel and ask for directions, but that wasn't the point! He had to find Sherlock. Where was he? He approached the nearest bar and asked the barkeeper if he'd seen a man in a black coat, but he laughed and declined. John couldn't even guess which direction he'd gone. He looked left and right in search of anything familiar and then picked a direction at random. South. If John had been lost, he'd gone back to their hotel, and Sherlock probably knew him well enough to know that. It had to be south of here.  
He set a brisk pace. Which was when the mobile phone in his pocket bumped into his thigh, which reminded him of the wonderful achievements of modern technology that allowed for people to find each other without having to run up and down the beach like an idiot. He glanced at the phone sheepishly. No text. Well. Sherlock probably hadn't even realized he'd lost him yet.  
  
"Where are you?" he texted, and that was when he saw him. Just ahead, looking at his phone, no doubt, that was him. The relief John felt almost sent him reeling. He ran, barrelled into Sherlock and wrapped himself around him so hard Sherlock dropped his phone when he hugged him back. "Hello, John. Nice to see you too."  
  
"I thought I had lost you!"  
  
"I was just behind the-"  
  
"Christ, I thought they'd abducted you."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"You know, whoever."  
  
"Ah. Those", smiled Sherlock into the curve of John's neck, pressing a kiss or many there. John ran his hands through Sherlock's hair that was thick with sweat and sea salt, and felt looked so delicious John wanted to kiss him forever. Sherlock, though, buzzed with excitement, and John knew he should ask. And so he did: "Found anything useful?"

"Maybe. Don't know yet. Possibly. They were here, but we knew that already. What we didn't know is that they were here in the company of several men the woman seemed familiar with. One remarked that she seemed to be on a professional basis with them. The barman back there said they all looked like police."  
  
"CIA?"  
  
"That's what I think."  
  
"But why... I mean, I can understand them wanting her back, for one reason or the other, but why draw us into the picture?"  
  
"John. Do you remember Bond Air?"  
  
"The Woman? Of course I remember."  
  
"The Vatican Cameos? The CIA man?"  
  
"You think-"  
  
"I never told you what happened in Serbia. Not sure I ever will. Bond Air alone might not have been enough to alienate our American friends, I mean, yes, he was very angry, and he did threaten to kill me, but what happened in Serbia must have been a terrific blow for him."  
  
"For who?"  
  
"For whom, John. The CIA man. Don't know his name, don't know if it even matters. Probably not his real name anyway. What matters is that he holds a grudge, and now we're in his territory. Clever. He used the only bait he knew I could not resist."  
  
"How could he have known that?"  
  
Sherlock turned to John, but then his eyes turned vacant, and John knew he was somewhere far away. "So much for that", John said. "Guess you'll tell me when you're ready." But Sherlock was already off, broke the embrace and dashed off towards the hotel, dragging John behind. "Come on, John, keep up!"  
John barely had time to pick up Sherlock's phone from where he'd dropped it, and followed.

  
A few hours later, they'd combed Miami Beach so thoroughly they had started to attract attention. John guessed a man in a black coat who dragged a sweating Englishman behind him by the hand wasn't all too common even here. They stopped at a Starbucks to regroup. Sherlock frowned at the choices of coffees as if he'd never seen them before. "Sherlock. Stop it. You always take the same awful thing anyway."  
  
"It simply amazes me how something so mundane as coffee can be turned into a concoction with a name longer than the Queen's. And at a price that's almost as royal."  
  
"Sherlock. Let me do the ordering this time."  
  
John smiled amiably at the guy behind the counter who looked as if he'd just jumped off his surfboard, and he had just opened his mouth to order when Sherlock bowed down as if to whisper to him, brushed the tiniest kiss on his nape and whispered: "I love you." Which was how John forgot his order, closed his mouth, smiled apologetically at the barista and left the queue with as much dignity as he could muster.  
  
"You're enjoying that", John stated when Sherlock came back outside to where John had found a table, and placed an iced coffee with milk in front of him.  
  
"Enjoying what?" Sherlock was all innocence and stirred the huge pancreas-busting syrupy cream thing with flavour and a little coffee he always ordered. When he could no longer suppress it, he hid his smirk behind the huge cup and drank. John shook his head in exasperation.    
  
"John. Of course I am enjoying that."  
  
"You have some-" John wiped cream and caramel and brittle off Sherlock's nose and licked his finger. "Christ. How you survive an entire mug of that is-" And that was how far he came, because then Sherlock leaned over and kissed him. It wasn't so bad, John thought, when it was diluted by Sherlock, though, he thought as Sherlock kissed him and kissed him and kissed him some more, snogging Sherlock at Starbucks probably wasn't suitable for any diabetic.  
  
"Very sweet", John managed when Sherlock let him up.  
  
"Ah", Sherlock said, after taking another sip, "This does stimulate the brain. The coffee, I mean."  
  
"More like the sugar."  
  
"So, what did we learn."  
  
"Not much. They were here. They aren't now."  
  
"Right. What else."  
  
"It's a CIA operation."  
  
"Possibly."  
  
"You don't think?"  
  
"I think if it were, we'd most likely be dead already. And Mycroft would know. Would he have told me? Doubtful. Whoever is behind this, he's not playing by the rules."  
  
"Do you think this is behind- do you think they wanted to abduct Mary to get to you?"  
  
Sherlock looked like he'd been slapped, his face fell, he couldn't look John in the eye.  
  
"Sherlock? What's wrong?"  
  
"I have to talk to Mycroft."  
  
"Mycroft? Is he- Sherlock! Wait!"

 

Of course he was. And only Mycroft could muster enough dignity even in a garish Miami Beach resort to make it look like Britannia actually ruled this place still, drinking his tea as if the Boston Tea Party had never happened, looking all prim and proper and slightly annoyed in a three piece suit. "John. How nice to see you. Brother dear. I hope you had a lovely day at the beach while I tried to keep the civilized world safe."  
  
"Do tell your henchmen their disguises are sloppy and their fake accents are hilarious and no self-respecting barkeeper would wear a cap like that. Oh, and only amateurs and cops on telly press their ear piece. It's as if you wanted me to find them."  
  
"Oh. Is that so. How many did you find then."  
  
"Five you wanted to be found, and four more."  
  
"So then you did miss two. I win this round."  
  
"The cabbie?"

"No cabbies. Too much hassle doing expenses."

"Who was it then?"  
  
"Some things better remain a mystery, don't you think. John, do sit down. I'm sure my brother chased you up and down Miami Beach all day."  
  
"Thank you, Mycroft. I'm quite comfortable standing."  
  
"All these years, and we're practically family now. When will you learn to trust me, John?"  
  
"When Sherlock does, I think", John said, reflexively, but the thought scared him, a little. Mycroft was his partners brother, and that made him... that made him... nothing really. Yes. That was it. Nothing. Right. Good. John became aware that both Holmeses observed him with the gaze usually reserved for specimens and other things that needed deducing. Mycroft smiled. Sherlock seethed, and John knew they'd read his mind, as usual.  
  
"Well. What brings you to this expansive and rather plushy hotel lobby?"  
  
"We have questions", Sherlock said.

"Of course you do."

"Do you know who is behind this?"

"I have a strong suspicion. But no. I do not."

"Then I take it this is not an official mission."

"That is my understanding. But then, even I am not told everything all the time."

"Is Mary part of this?"

"Despite my earlier conviction, I am no longer entirely willing to entertain the idea she's still alive. I might have placed too much trust in my colleague, and I was certainly oblivious to the fact that he had another agenda. No, I have no knowledge of a covert operation with Mary at the centre."  
  
"Too much information, Mycroft - only lies need that much detail."

"It was I who taught you that, remember. Do you think I would make such a mistake?"

"I do, yes."  
  
Mycroft laughed. "Sherlock. I'm here because I worry about you. I want to help. As far as I know, this is not an official operation. Expect something personal and violent. Expect no help from our allies."  
  
"No help from you, either, I presume."

"On foreign ground? Technically, we're all tourists. Well. We do help out where we can."  
  
Sherlock stapled his fingers. John cringed. "Assuming you're right and not deliberately misleading, no, Mycroft, let me finish - assuming that, I conclude that someone, someone who knows me very well and might have or might have had official channels feeding him information, has lured us into his territory. Using Mary as bait. With your knowledge. Our allies must know what you know. You cannot act on their ground. They cannot act on ours. For the mission to succeed, I had to come here. For what? It is possible our Bond Air friend tries to eliminate a loose end. Maybe he believes he'll get back into their good graces if he kills me. If this is what I think it is, though, it can only be revenge. Sanctioned, but not endorsed. If this mission is a success and I'm dead or whatever he has in store for me, there won't be repercussions. If it's a failure, there won't be any either. For me. Am I right?"  
  
"So far."

"This means, of course, that whoever sanctioned this, someone higher up in the organisation, is using Mary to bait a trap for John and me, and using me to bait another, bigger trap. A chance to clear a head count. I guess early retirement isn't popular in the CIA."  
  
"Of course there are excellent retirement plans including relocation to lovely homes in rural New Hampshire with 24/7 surveillance. It's not MI6, but -"  
  
"He is fair game then. So am I. Good. Okay. I can work with that."  
  
John had listened so far, but he was getting increasingly uncomfortable with where this conversation was headed. And he didn't like the look on Sherlock's face, the flat expression he'd last seen when he'd just been back from Serbia. He hadn't recognized it for what it was then. He had never asked, but he had been to war, he had seen the look before and didn't want to see it on his partner. "Sherlock, I think that maybe this isn't all that important after all. Shouldn't we simply return to London then?"  
Sherlock's head whipped around as if he'd completely forgotten about John. He regarded him with a stare as flat as his voice and said: "Mycroft. Promise me."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Promise what? Oh. Come on. You Holmeses with your secrets and hints and subtlety. Can't anyone talk straight? Just for once?"  
  
"John will be safe", Mycroft said.  
  
"Safe? Wait a minute-"  
  
"Do you know where?"  
  
"He plans to send you a text."  
  
"But you do know where and when."  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I'm not waiting for a text then. Let's go. Brief me on the way. I'll take a cab."  
  
They both stood and walked off without so much as a glance back. John saw red, jumped up, started to run after Sherlock only to find himself in a painful headlock and then, for the briefest moment, smelled something cloying and sweet and had just time to think "Oh, great" before he lost consciousness.  


 

* * *

It was dark when John woke up. His head hurt, and his trousers vibrated. Oh. Wait. That was a phone. Had to be a phone. The vibration stopped, and John became aware that he was back in their hotel room. It was dark, he was alone, and his head throbbed painfully. Then he remembered.  
  
Sherlock.  
  
He stumbled into the bathroom and drank from the tap until he thought the headache had subsided somewhat. The man in the mirror looked weary and hurt and angry - John Watson, veteran, doctor, drugged and tricked and dumped on a hotel bed like a blushing virgin while his prince had gone to fight dragons. His stomach turned and he almost vomited. He supported himself against the washstand and heaved.  
"It's okay, it's going to be okay, just a minute, clear your head, it's going to be fine, any minute now", he heard himself say over and over between spasms, and then it was okay. He splashed cold water into his face and straightened. There. John Watson wouldn't have any of that bullshit.  
  
Belatedly, he remembered the phone. Maybe Sherlock had texted. The phone he fished from his pocket felt wrong, though, but he understood why only when he looked at it: Sherlock's mobile. Why did he have Sherlock's mobile? At last, he recalled Sherlock had dropped it at the beach and John had never returned it. He fumbled with the code but recalled it eventually, and the text was simple: A time and a place, Card Sound Road, bridge, two am. John checked his watch: He had almost four hours left.  
"A dark road in the middle of the night. A trap", he told his reflection. "Of course it's a trap. Sherlock knows. I know. But they don't know I'm coming."  


 


	7. Chapter 7

If there was a thing that amazed him, it was how similar societies worked. There was always one of them somewhere. John scanned the lobby and found the person he was looking for immediately. He'd probably channelled Sherlock, he thought, and smirked. The young man behind the counter looked just fine if you didn't look too hard. Nobody looked that hard, it was rude after all. But there it was, clear as day, the slightly scruffy shirt, the constant nervous energy, barely contained.  
The name tag said "Louis". John marched up to him, leaned across the counter and asked: "Excuse me, where can I buy a gun?"  
  
Bingo. The clerk recoiled and caught himself just in time, smiling affably. "Game and Fish on West have an excellent range of products for all your hunting needs. They're closed now, but you can apply for a license -"  
  
John smiled. "No. I mean, where can I buy a gun?"  
  
"Yes, sir, Game and Fish..."  
  
"Look. Louis. Why don't we stop pretending that I don't know you're peddling meth and pot right outside the back door. I'm sure you also deliver. How do I know? Well. Because you reek of pot and your gums have retreated from smoking meth and you show the nervous disposition of a long time user. And you're in dire need of another fix. The watch on your wrist costs more than you make here in a year by just wiping tourist asses. If I looked, Louis, I am sure I would find a very expensive car nobody knows about in the parking lot just outside the hotel while everyone here thinks you take the bus with all the other minimum-wagers. Am I right?"  
  
The clerk shrank back. John splayed his hands on the table, grinning a humourless grin. "Now. What I want is a handgun and ammo. Nine millimetre. I pay extra if you can procure a Sig Sauer."  
  
The trick was, John thought, to never doubt for a moment your tactics would work. Time stretched while he smiled at Louis. The hotel manager, occupied with another guest, glanced at them, sensing a disturbance in the force.  
  
"Very well, sir", Louis managed. "I'll personally make sure the item you requested will at your door this time tomorrow."  
  
"No." John stopped smiling and leaned further in. Louis actually sweated now. "One hour."  
  
"One..."  
  
"Did you know that methamphetamine causes brain damage in humans? No? A significant reduction in grey matter has been observed in long-term users." Damn, John thought. I speak like him too. In a year, I'll start playing the violin.  
  
"Is there a problem, sir?" The manager had finally decided to take matters into his own hands.  
  
"A problem. No. Well, actually, yes. I am trying to locate a scuba mask that fits optical glasses, and your colleague here volunteered to procure one for me. Which I consider outstanding service, but he says he cannot leave his post."  
The manager waved at Louis, who evaporated. "Thank you", John said, "That's very kind. You see, I'm waiting for my partner and cannot possibly leave without the mask."  
The manager nodded as if that made perfect sense and smiled a very wide, very white smile. "Anything at all. Is there anything else we can assist you with today to make your stay more enjoyable?"  
"Actually, there is", smiled John, "Is there a cash machine anywhere close by?"  
  
Not even forty-five minutes later, Louis arrived, spotted John in his chair in a dark corner of the lobby and hastened over. They stepped outside, and John accepted the brown paper bag, checked the gun, loaded it and chambered a round with practised ease. Louis stared. "Just don't shoot anyone with that, man", he pleaded.  
  
"Not if I can help it", said John, paid and actually remembered to include a tip.  
  
"Pleasure doing business with you. Can I interest you in some-"

"No."

Louis strolled off, and John added: "Thank you." He was British after all.

  
Outside, John hailed a cab and went for the next rental car station. The gun rode uncomfortably in his waistband underneath his jacket, and he was sure it showed. It felt alien, and he wished he'd had some time to practice with it. Or at least clean it. There was no telling what his two hundred dollars (plus tip) had bought. He'd have to get in close. If he'd have to use it. He hoped he wouldn't have to. When he rented the car, which took slightly longer than his negotiation with Louis, he felt the familiar tension take hold of him. For the briefest moment, he grinned at the prospect of a fight.  
  
John killed the lights when he approached Card Sound Road. He'd encountered no traffic, which wasn't all that surprising as it was almost two am. Warily, he approached the bridge and drove all the way down to the junction with 905 without seeing anyone, not a single car, but he did make sure the bridge he has seen was the place they'd mentioned. He checked his watch - too early. It wasn't quite two yet. So he drove up again until he found a dirt road, ditched the car there and approached the bridge on foot. Staying in the shadows was relatively easy until he reached the bridge, but just then, he heard a car approach and darted into the mangrove shrubs off the road. The car, a cab, stopped just before it reached the bridge, pulling off the road. Someone emerged, then someone else. Sherlock, unmistakeable by his long coat. And - everything else really. John's heart did a flip when he recognized his partner down the road, and another when Sherlock raised his hands above his head in an obvious gesture. John clenched his teeth, drew the gun and was about to engage when the van arrived. That complicated things. He bled back into the shadow and tried circling around, trying to get closer to the scene.  
  
He didn't recognize the man emerging from the van, but it was obvious Sherlock did. From where he was, he couldn't overhear their conversation, just the tone, snide, hateful, underlined by the guns pointed at Sherlock. One against two... John thought he could still do this, but it'd be harder. They were closer. He'd have to close in before he could charge, but it was hard to judge visibility. They stood well inside in the combined lights of both cars - it would be difficult for them to see him. He inched closer.  
That's when he saw her. She emerged from the van, wearing her red coat. Her hair dyed brown, but there she was. Mary. Had to be her. His stomach clenched. Sherlock had been right all along. Of course he had. She had somehow survived the fall and was here. Sherlock said something, she shrugged, the man answered for her. And John could only stand and watch. His wife. Back from the dead. He didn't think Sherlock saw the gun she held hidden inside the folds of her coat.  
  
John would never know how he came to the conclusion. Would never really think about what happened that day. But when things became frantic, he did raise his gun, and it wasn't at Sherlock. It wasn't even to help Sherlock. In his sights, there was a pale face above a red coat, and he steadied his shooting hand with the other as he took aim, for the first time since basic training. And he never allowed himself to wonder if he had really been ready to shoot his wife.  



	8. Chapter 8

A classic setup, Sherlock, thought. Of course. Card Sound Road was deserted this late, a fine destination for murder. The car stopped on a bridge connecting two strips of swampland, and the driver turned around and pointed a gun at him: "This is your stop, Mr. Holmes."  
  
Sherlock weighed his options and went for snark: "Don't think for a moment that I'm paying for this."  
  
"With your life", retorted the goon and chuckled. Great. He'd stepped right into a James Bond movie.  
  
"Don't tell me", Sherlock said, "It's death by killer sharks. No, wait, alligators. Close?"  
  
"Get out. Now."  
  
Sherlock did get out then. Another car he hadn't seen before, a dark van, appeared inside the cab's cone of light and stopped.  
  
"Hands above your head." Clearly, the cabbie had seen too many cheesy movies, but Sherlock lifted his hands nonetheless.  
  
Sherlock wasn't too surprised when a familiar figure emerged from the van: A man in his fifties, tall, hands buried inside a short jacket. Last he'd seen him, he'd told Sherlock he'd get a medal for shooting him in the head, right after The Woman had tricked him into - thinking of The Woman derailed him, and Sherlock needed to focus. Yes, this was the CIA man who had raided Irene Adler's house and whose operation he had inadvertently foiled.  
  
"Mr. Holmes. Alas, we meet again", the CIA man said, voice dripping with acid. "What a hassle to get you out of London."  
  
"The tea back home is rather excellent", Sherlock said. "You could have just called, you know."  
  
"Nah. Wouldn't want to get your brother's attention."  
  
"Hm. I'm not sure if that's something that can be achieved."  
  
"He's not here. It's just you and me. Oh, and an old friend." The CIA man waved, and from the van, a petite figure emerged, a woman, wearing a loose red coat. Hovering at the fringe of the headlights, she was just a very pale face above the red coat, her brown hair bleeding into the night. She gave a little wave.  
  
"Hello, Mary. Or shall I call you Nicole? Your naming system is alarmingly repetitive."  
  
She shrugged, and the CIA man motioned her to be silent. "You know, at the Agency, we believe everyone is responsible for their own fuckups. She gets another shot at hers. And yeah, that's a pun. You guys like puns, don't you."  
  
It was Sherlock's turn to shrug. "What I would like very much", he said, "Is know how you did it. That's what really puzzles me. How did you pull it off? We saw you jump."  
  
"We have our methods", replied the CIA man.  
  
"I liked you better as a blonde. Is that your natural colour? Ah, don't answer that. If I can get one question before I die, I'd rather learn how you did it. It must have taken outstanding skill. For you and the baby to survive."  
  
"She's one of our best agents, you must have figured that out."  
  
"Speaking of which, where is the baby now? What did you end up calling her?"  
  
Mary didn't speak and didn't move, she just stood there, her hands hidden inside her coat, and Sherlock thought she smiled. "Enough talk, Mr. Holmes. Time to die. If you would kindly move over to the side of the road, it's easier to remove blood stains there."  
  
"Actually, the sand and dust will make it very hard to remove-" Sherlock flinched as the driver produced a wicked-looking baton from somewhere and whacked him across his face with it. It hurt, a lot, and he tasted blood. Must have busted a lip. When Sherlock didn't comply, the driver took another swing, and this time, Sherlock was ready, blocked the strike (that hurt, a lot), and tried to drop the driver, but he was well trained, the baton proved problematic, and after a brief struggle, Sherlock ended up on his knees in a painful stranglehold with a gun at his temple. That was it then. Sherlock's vision dimmed while he struggled, but he did see the woman in red and the CIA man approach him, warily, as if approaching a mortally wounded animal that still had some fight in it.  
He heard running footsteps, then a gunshot and half expected the searing pain of a gunshot wound, but instead, his vision returned, the stranglehold vanished and someone crashed into him, grabbed him by the armpits and pulled him up and into the night, and he almost fell over the still twitching body of the driver on his way to the edge of the bridge. He half fell and half was thrown off the bridge and into the water, which moved up and closed around him salty and warm like cooling blood.  
  
They ducked and swam, guided by the lights above, trying to keep to the shadows and in the water, ducking between the twisted limbs of mangroves. They stopped when they had rounded a corner and took their bearings. To the west, on the bridge, people shouted, and Sherlock counted at least five, one of them female, but they were already too far away to make out words. Next to him, John panted and spat. "Oh ye of little faith", John coughed when he could speak, "You didn't really think you'd get rid of me, did you."  
  
"Well, for a moment there..."  
  
"Bullshit", John said fondly. "So. Which way is Miami again?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head and grinned. "John."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
And even there, half crouched beneath a mangrove, half in the water, crabs scuttling away from them in protest and unseen fish poking their legs inquiringly, he found he loved him so much it hurt, and he pulled him in for a kiss that was wet and sloppy for many reasons. John kissed him back with a ferocity that made Sherlock come up back for breath and gasp, but then John just hugged him, held him close almost gingerly and huffed against the side of his head. "I love you so much", he whispered. "Don't ever leave me behind again." He let go and left Sherlock reeling. "Come on. I'm sure the crocodiles are hungry."  
  
"It's alligators, John", Sherlock replied, and followed.  
  
It turned out hungry alligators weren't a problem at all, but midges were. And sharp rocks and the spiky roots of mangroves and their razor-sharp coating of oysters. And roosting anhingas that woke up panicked and hooted their position to anyone listening, and night herons squawking disapprovingly. Still, the bay was a big place, and they kept low and quiet and made it back to the road. Warily, they stayed inside the vegetation and kept the road in sight until they reached the 905 and the first homes. There, finally, drenched and filthy and weary and bleeding, Sherlock hot-wired an ancient truck and got them out of there. The next town had the auspicious name Homestead, and John paid cash at a motel that didn't look at them twice. They left the car at a Wendy's and walked back to the motel, John giving the car one last pat as if setting it free, as if it'd know its way home. Sherlock suspected the cops would return it eventually.

 

* * *

Dawn broke when they closed the shutters and locked the flimsy door.  
  
"That wasn't your gun", said Sherlock when he peeled his heavy, soggy coat off him.  
  
"Of course not. Can't bring an illegal handgun on a plane, can I."  
  
"Do you still have it?"  
  
"No. Dropped it in the swamp."  
  
"Too bad. We might still have some use for it."  
  
"I killed a man with it, Sherlock."  
  
"So you woke up early, bought a weapon, took a cab?"  
  
"Rented a car."  
  
"Rented a car, figured out where I had gone-"  
  
"They sent a text to your phone. Which I had."  
  
"Figured out where I had gone and decided to rescue me."  
  
"Pretty much, yes."  
  
"Shot the driver, pushed me off the bridge."  
  
"Yup."  
  
"Why did you come after me? You were safe."  
  
John squinted at Sherlock as if he'd grown a second head, and for the briefest moment, the familiar anger played over his features. Then he lifted a hand to Sherlock's face. "You're bleeding. And you're dirty. Bathroom, now."  
  
Sherlock wasn't much help, he had to admit. Shock and pain caught up with him slowly, but they did, and he sat on the rim of the bath tub shivering and cradling his arm while John drew a bath and frowned first at the choices of bath additives and then at the state of Sherlock himself. His arm, where the baton had connected, had become swollen and was very tender, and John had to help him undress. They'd undressed each other so many times before, Sherlock thought, but this was different. Reluctantly, Sherlock lowered himself into the hot water and hissed - he was covered in cuts and bruises, and it hurt.  
  
"It'll only hurt a moment", John promised, and of course he was right. Slowly, Sherlock relaxed and lay back. This was it, he thought as his muscles softened. This, right here. He'd never leave this bathtub again, and when the water cooled, he'd draw more hot water. Yes. Excellent plan. He prepared to doze off, but John wouldn't have any of it. "Here", he said, offering a washcloth, "You do your privates, I'll do the rest."  
  
"Please, let me just... Just one moment..."  
  
"Nope. You'll fall asleep and drown, and I'm not going to rescue you."  
  
"You're cruel."  
  
"Took you a while to figure that out. Here. Wash, or I will."  
  
"Is that a promise or a threat?"  
  
"Don't raise any expectations, love", John said, soaking a flannel and running it over Sherlock's shoulders. It was different, Sherlock thought, being touched like this. The physical side of their relationship had come easy to Sherlock, but they were equals in bed and equals cuddling on the sofa. Here, naked and hurt in a bathtub, looking up at John, he felt vulnerable. His previous lassitude gone, he sat up and hugged his knees. "I think I better-"  
But maybe John had seen it in him, or had anticipated it, maybe he did know him better than he knew himself. John placed a hand lightly over Sherlock's in a gesture strangely intimate for something so innocent. He was asking for something Sherlock couldn't quite figure out, slipped his fingers under Sherlock's where they dug into his knee, dislodging them gently. Sherlock found his heart raced, he couldn't look at John, instead he kept his eyes fixed on his hand in John's and the dripping washcloth that John ran over his hand and his arm, just the lightest touch, leaving warm water where it went. Sherlock found he couldn't breathe. This scared him more than their first sexual encounter had. This was a letting go, a slow seduction of another kind, of something he couldn't even name.  
  
Sherlock slowly became aware that he returned John's gaze, that his hand rested safely in John's. With a small tug, John prompted him to lift his arm and then ran the flannel along his upper arm and underneath, softly first and then, when Sherlock returned the hold on his hand, with more insistence, taking off grime and dirt and crusted blood and rubbing the fatigue from his muscles. Sherlock's other hand slipped off his knee, and he leaned back, watched John knit his brow when tree sap wouldn't come off, saw him smile when he inadvertently tickled Sherlock, and saw his concern at his swelling arm. His legs and feet were next, and they'd taken the brunt of the trek through the mangroves. Unlike John's jeans, his trousers hadn't provided any protection from thorns and rocks, and his legs were riddled with cuts. It hurt, a little, but John looked up from time to time to see if he was okay with this, and Sherlock found he was.  
Finally, when John washed his hair and evicted dead beetles and mangrove leaves, he closed his eyes and sighed, and John stopped what he was doing and just cradled his head and kissed his brow and held him in an awkward embrace that was sweet and gentle and completely disarmed Sherlock.  
  
Too soon, Sherlock sat on the rim of the tub again, wet and shivering despite the balmy Florida morning, guarding his arm against his chest. John wrapped him in a big towel, and Sherlock rested his head against John's collar bone while he half hugged him, half rubbed him dry, smiling as he towelled his hair and rubbed him dry behind the ears and between his toes. When he was done, John dotted a small kiss on his nose and gave him a pat on the back. "Off to bed, love." Sherlock looked at him in amazement. "Thank you", he said. John did the weirdest thing then, he looked stricken, swallowed, and ran his hands over Sherlock's arm and knees and neck where he wasn't covered by the towel, and he suddenly burrowed into Sherlock as if he couldn't get close enough, couldn't touch enough of him. Sherlock did the only thing he could think of and pulled him closer. When John came up again and dislodged himself with some difficulty, his eyes were rimmed with red. "Bed. Now", he said firmly, "I'll get ice for your arm."  
  
  
  
John put him to bed and came back a short while later with ice for his arm, improvising an ice pack from a plastic trash bag and a couple of towels until Sherlock's arm had turned into a towel-wrapped monstrosity. When he came back from the shower, Sherlock was already almost asleep, naked underneath the thin bedspread, where John was only too happy to join him. He was utterly exhausted.  
  
"How's the arm? Think you can sleep?"  
  
"Hurts a lot."  
  
"We'll have it X-rayed tomorrow, okay?"  
  
"I don't think it's broken."  
  
"Yes, but you're not the doctor, I am. You'll have an X-ray."  
  
"It's already turning blue."  
  
"It'll turn all kinds of colours."  
  
"I think I can see the surface pattern of the baton."  
  
"Put the ice pack back on, love."

"I'll document its progression. We'll buy a camera tomorrow. Well, technically, today."  
  
"That we'll do", said John and thought they'd do a lot of things, but probably not that.  
  
"After we elude a CIA conspiracy and solve the Mary Enigma", added Sherlock. So much for that, thought John, remembering the face in the sights. But then Sherlock turned around, facing him, and in the Florida morning light, the bruise livid on his face, he looked so young and fragile and abused John thought he'd do anything at all to keep him save. Lightly, he ran a hand over Sherlock's skin where it wasn't broken.  
  
"You came after me", Sherlock said.  
  
"Of course."  
  
"I'm trying John. I'm trying to understand what that means."  
  
"You know what it means, Sherlock", John said, turned around and burrowed into the curve of Sherlock's body. Gently, he pulled Sherlock's very nearly broken arm over himself and adjusted the ice pack, then brushed a kiss on Sherlock's hand. "Sleep", he told him, and Sherlock did.  



	9. Chapter 9

They slept like dead. That was why John didn't react in time when the door was thrown in with a crash and harsh daylight fell on them for a split second before someone, several someones stormed into the room. Even if he had had his gun, he wouldn't have been able to react. It all happened so fast, someone had him in a stranglehold before he had time to shout, and all that remained of Sherlock next to him was a fading sensation of warmth where he had been. John had time to register black special ops gear and masks and Sherlock white and naked on the floor between them. Someone knelt on his back and twisted his arms around, trying to tie him with a zip-tie, and Sherlock's face contorted in pain. John thought if it hadn't been broken before, it would be now.  
  
"Clear!" came a shout.  
  
"For the love of God", said a familiar voice. "I asked you to expect violence, not to exert it."  
  
"You have to be more specific, sir."  
  
"Divided by a common language, aren't we. Well, now, let them up. And would someone please cover them already."  
  
"Mycroft", Sherlock wheezed. "Kind of you to join."  
  
"Brother dear. John. I hope you don't mind my intrusion. There have been developments."  
  
"You could say that."  
  
"Your little stunt last night hasn't escaped my attention, but that's not what I mean. Dress. I'll explain in the car."  
  
  
The car turned out to be another van. If Sherlock was intimidated by the agents, he didn't show - John suspected it was a good sign all in all that Mycroft was here with them, his usual pompous self even in Florida's midday heat. The parking lot was curiously empty, which John attributed to the agents escorting them into the van, not like prisoners, which relieved him greatly, but like potential victims, which, on the other hand, was worrying. John caught a brief glimpse of a sniper on the motel roof in one of the agent's mirror sunglasses, and ducked into the van.  
Inside, Sherlock sat very straight, already engaged in a lovely chat with Mycroft.  
  
"Sloppy, Sherlock. I thought we had agreed."  
  
"I'm not assassinating anyone, Mycroft."  
  
"It wouldn't have been an assassination, it would have been self-defence. What were you thinking? Do you actively try to get yourself killed?"  
  
"It's not self-defence if you planned for it beforehand."  
  
"John here didn't have any such scruples."  
  
"That, on the other hand, was self-defence. Sort of."  
  
John raised a hand and tried to get a word in, but Sherlock caught his hand and deposited it firmly on John's knee without even looking at him.  
  
"I am not your garrotter, Mycroft. Do your dirty work yourself."  
  
"Yesterday, we had a strategic advantage. Today, we have a situation."  
  
"I don't see how that is any different from yesterday."  
  
"That is why you're the chemist turned sleuth and I occupy a minor position in the British government, brother dear. Leave the strategy to me."  
  
"Then leave the killing to someone else as well."  
  
Mycroft glared at his brother, but then John thought that for the briefest moment, something like understanding settled there.  
  
"Bygones", Mycroft said with emphasis. "The situation, according to these gentlemen here", his hand encompassed the interior of the van, where several black clad special ops men professionally ignored the conversation, "Is that thanks to the commotion last night, we were able to track them to a formerly unknown safe house. We endeavour to make it less safe. My contact here", he pointed to one of the black-clad men, who nodded briefly, "invited me to witness the operation."  
  
"They cut him loose", John marvelled. "The CIA man. They cut him loose."  
  
"I take it people weren't too happy about a certain joint project then", Sherlock added.  
  
"Indeed. It pains me when so-called professionals cannot divest themselves from a mission sufficiently to see inevitable failures as just that - inevitable. Could have been sloppy security, could have been bad weather, could have been a lovesick little brother. Would anyone endeavour to kill the clouds? I think not."  
  
"I wasn't lovesick."  
  
"Of course you weren't. Ah. I believe we're here."  
  
  
There could be no doubt they were in the middle of a major operation. The agents moved into the entirely ordinary house in an entirely ordinary suburb with no-nonsense professionalism, and Mycroft strolled in behind them, Sherlock and John in tow. There wasn't much for any of them to do, their work done for them already. No shots were fired. The front door stood open, and behind it, they found the first body. There'd been no struggle, just a single shot to the head. Two men lay sprawled in the kitchen, a pot of coffee lay smashed next to one of them. Sherlock knelt next to the bodies, trying to judge the calibre of the weapon and height of the assailant, but the agents trampled all over the crime scene and made a mess of it. They were definitely worse than the New Scotland Yard. Sherlock made a mental note to never complain about Donovan and Anderson again and discarded that thought a split second later.  
  
"Someone cleaned up after himself", Sherlock said.  
  
"Obviously."  
  
"I don't see the CIA man's body."  
  
"I have him down as the shooter", one of the agents said, holstering his weapon.  
  
"A reasonable assumption."  
  
"He's on the run. We'll find him. Mr. Holmes, I assure you your brother and his partner are no longer a target."  
  
That was when he heard the cat, faintly, somewhere down the hall. John perked up and Sherlock found it curious that John would react such to a house cat, but then John bolted, and Sherlock had no choice, he followed. Shouldering past protesting agents, John dashed down the hall, accelerating impossibly, and all but crashed into the room at the end of the hall.  
Two things. The body of a woman, petite, brunette, a red coat hanging from a clothes horse. She was in her late twenties at the most, and how he could have mistaken her for Mary was beyond him. But then, he'd only ever seen her on grainy photographs and at night, from afar. She'd never spoken. Now, she stared up at the ceiling in eternal surprise. A single bullet to the head had ended her life. Sherlock searched John's face for a reaction but found only compassion and regret for yet another wasted life.  
  
Behind her, in a cot, a squalling girl held herself upright clinging to the bars of her little cage-like enclosure, and while Sherlock wondered why one would lock up a baby, even a squalling one, John already lifted her up, cradled her and bounced her and whispered nonsense until she calmed down and snuggled against him with a few last sobs. John looked down at her fuzzy white hair with a tenderness Sherlock found impossible to bear, he couldn't look at him but had to anyway, risked a shy glance and felt his heart miss a beat or several. John noticed his gaze and smiled at him over the baby's head, and that was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen.  
  
  
It wasn't her, of course. John reluctantly turned her over to child services later that day, at the hospital where Sherlock finally got an X-ray and a cast, which fascinated and annoyed him endlessly at once. He'd held her while they swabbed her for a DNA identification, had helped examining her, had played with her and made her laugh, and he was certain she wasn't actually his daughter. But when they took her away and she held on to his shirt and his hair and his hands with both fists and cried until her head turned beet red and then a shade darker yet, he felt an acute loss than was out of proportion considering their brief time together. He looked after her when she'd been long gone, and he felt Mycroft's eyes on him the entire time.  
  
He tried to doze a bit while waiting for Sherlock to get his arm treated, tried to clear his head after today's events, but it turned out to be impossible. Mycroft sat with him, serene and obnoxious as always. It did surprise John when Mycroft said: "I'm sorry for your loss. I don't think I ever told you."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"I'm shocked and appalled that anyone would use this particular pressure point to get to my brother. I'm sorry for that as well."  
  
"Not your fault, Mycroft."  
  
"I should have seen it coming and asked for his termination a long time ago."  
  
"Whose? Sherlock's?"  
  
Mycroft chuckled briefly as if John had made an excellent joke. "Lord, no. Darrell's. You call him The CIA Man."  
  
"Oh. Him. I didn't know you're on a first name basis. He's behind this?"  
  
"Obviously. He'll be taken care of. He tried to enact revenge on Sherlock. Blamed him for his inevitable degradation and a mission in Serbia that took a heavy toll on him."  
  
"You knew all that and still you-"  
  
"You had other things to worry about, John."  
  
"Speaking of which. Do I have to worry?"  
  
"You mean about the rogue CIA agent who managed to get himself killed last night, shot in the head with a gun traceable to several drug deals, as they say, 'gone bad'? That depends entirely on your amount of empathy."  
  
"Thank you. I appreciate that."  
  
John sank back against the wall and closed his eyes. Nothing to see here anyway. Just another drab waiting room. Just the usual broken bones and fishing hook mishaps and wounds inflicted by two-hundred dollar guns. Just the usual complaints about the long wait.  
  
But Mycroft didn't let him off the hook that easily.  
  
"You're serious about him."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"About Sherlock."  
  
John blinked in confusion. "Wait a second. You're worried about me breaking Sherlock's heart?"  
  
"You've been very adamant regarding your orientation in the past."  
  
"I like women too, Mycroft. Strictly speaking, I'm not gay. And I'm not having The Talk with you." John shut his eyes, trying to shut Mycroft out with it.  
  
"John, you have to understand that if you date anyone outside this relationship, I will know."  
  
John smiled without opening his eyes. He was suddenly very, very tired.  
  
"And people tell me I have trust issues." The silence wore on, and John thought he maybe needed to explain a bit more. "I love him. I've loved him before. But I thought I wanted something else. Something normal. Sherlock isn't, not by a long shot. As you know, obviously. But there he was, always, and loving him was just something that was there. I loved him and hunted for a different life. Turns out that wasn't it. And I understood. It's all so simple now. You have to know him like that, Mycroft. You have to know him like that to understand." Mycroft didn't say anything to that, which was odd.  
  
"Mycroft?"  
  
John opened his eyes. Mycroft was gone, and yes, of course, there he was, right in front of him, pale and shaky, arm in a cast and the cast in a sling, looking bruised and broken in a way he only ever allowed himself to look when they were alone and he was hurting, smiling at him feebly, his good hand fumbling with a cigarette.  
  
"Sherlock. It's rude to listen in on a private conversation."  
  
"I'm not sure a conversation that includes only you is private", Sherlock said, trying to light the cigarette and failing, thankfully, because John was rather sure non-smoking laws in the USA were quite rigid. He confiscated the smoke and steered Sherlock towards the exit. "Those are the most private ones."  
  
"You say the most wonderful things about me when I'm not there, John."  
  
"I say the most wonderful things about you when you're there as well."  
  
"Like what? 'Don't leave your experiment where I might step in it'? I'd like to discuss your definition of 'wonderful'."  
  
John threaded an arm around Sherlock's waist, half to support him, half because he wanted to. "You are my definition of wonderful, you prat", John said.


	10. Chapter 10

John wanted to take Sherlock home with him right away. They were already at the airport when Sherlock's attention latched on to the words on the floor, and John saw the unfamiliar longing play across his features again. He caught his arm. "We can stay if you want to. Take some time off."  
Sherlock tore his eyes away from the words on the floor and studied the ceiling instead. "Nah. We should get back to London."  
  
"What for?"  
  
"I don't really know. I'm sure there was something, but I forgot."  
  
They looked at each other, John straight on, Sherlock with a sidelong glance, and then they burst out laughing.  
  
  
They didn't have to go far. Sherlock found them a seaside resort on the Keys that turned out to be a far cry from their motel room in Homestead. John dumped their bags on the floor of a giant suite and threw the balcony doors open, letting the sound and scent of the sea in. There was the king size bed, of which they made excellent use - they slept for a day. At the end of that day, they sat by the sea, dazed from too much sleep, jetlag, and murder conspiracies, and watched a kingfisher dart into the water while they ate their own dinner. That exhausted them, and they went to bed early.  
  
John lounged in bed, almost asleep, sorting through Sherlock's curls where he lay sprawled across his chest like a tired puppy, when the call came. John accepted the call for Sherlock and nudged him: "Your brother. Could be important."  
  
Sherlock grunted, but he took the call anyway. "Hm?  Right. Good. Yeah. Really?" Suddenly wide awake, he sat up and turned on the telly, switching channels until he found the local channel, muting the channel on a Cheetos commercial. "Got it. After the break. I'll call you back."  
  
John felt Sherlock tense up next to him and wondered. He stared at the screen with a grim intensity he didn't like and that didn't really fit the Bud Clydesdales. Then the program resumed, and John saw they were live in the middle of a car chase somewhere in greater Miami where a silver SUV was barrelling through wide streets lined with palmettos, the scene lit by the search lights of two police helicopters and possibly even the one whose perspective they were taking. A photo in the upper right corner showed the CIA Man's portrait. Several police cars were in pursuit. Sherlock pressed his phone against his lips. There was no mistaking who that was. The CIA Man was on the run. And the news were on it, live and in colour and occasionally the green and white of infra-red cameras.  
  
It didn't take long. He was outgunned and outnumbered, and the news helicopter dipped for a moment while heavy gunfire lit up the streets below. Someone was packing more than a nine millimetre, John smirked and immediately felt bad for it. But Christ, that bastard deserved it for making him think Mary had come back. For almost destroying the best thing in his life. For almost killing Sherlock, for God's sake. John couldn't help but admire the sheer brutality and enthusiasm with which the CIA Man's life (Darrell, his name was Darrell) was snuffed out.  
  
The reporter said something about a shocking turn of events and a shooting at a Miami home, four dead in what appeared to be a drug deal gone horribly wrong while Sherlock called Mycroft and simply said: "Thank you." That was it, and he turned off the TV and all but collapsed on John's chest. John cradled Sherlock against him and pressed his cheek against his head. This was it. They were safe. Sherlock was safe. With Sherlock a limp, exhausted weight in his arms, John thought he'd never fall asleep, but he did.  
  
  
  
John suspected Sherlock might have recovered somewhat when he woke up in the middle of the night with Sherlock's mouth around him. It was quite a way to wake up, he had to admit, the sheets thrown back and Sherlock's head lit from behind by only the moon, doing his best to swallow John's erection. How had he gotten so good at this? He arched his back and felt Sherlock hang on one-handed, digging his fingers into John's hip desperately for purchase. John realized he'd hurt his arm if he carried on like that, tried to pull himself together, but he was so good at this, so- No. He reached down and pulled him up to his chest, nuzzling his hair, trying not to buck against his body and failing. "I'll hurt you."  
  
"Doesn't matter", Sherlock said. "I want you."

The tone of it almost sent John over the edge. He squeezed his eyes shut and recalled Sherlock's head, working on his erection. He sought his mouth and kissed him, wanted to taste that mouth and feel the slide of Sherlock's tongue against his. Mindlessly, he guided Sherlock above him and between his legs, and Sherlock understood, of course he did, he always did, produced a condom from somewhere and let John slick him with lube while John kissed him impatiently, insistent, stroked him, urged him on. Sherlock broke the kiss and huffed against his brow. "John. Stop, or I'll..."  
  
Lose control, that's what, thought John, and thought that this was the problem, if there was a problem they had in bed, which they didn't, this would be it, Sherlock dreading to lose control. John certainly didn't have that problem, he found, when Sherlock slipped inside and John dug his fingers into his butt, urging him deeper and faster and harder, but there it was, of course, Sherlock's control. Sherlock hampered by the cast, wanting to take care of him and stroke him, but he couldn't put weight on his bad arm, couldn't hold himself up. Then he shouldn't, really, John didn't mind his weight on him, but Sherlock stopped, which almost killed John. "I can't, I-"  
  
John licked his lips and pulled Sherlock's head down, resting Sherlock's brow against his. "Sherlock. Love. Don't think." And then he nipped at his ear and whispered something he found marvellously effective.  
That did it, like it always did. Across Sherlock's face flitted astonishment, then mirth at having his buttons pressed so effectively, and when his brain had caught up with his body, his self control and intellect shattered into millions of fast expanding pieces. He shuddered and threw back his head, and his next thrust was harder, the next one harder still, and then he was pounding away freely, John digging his fingers into his butt, unable even to slip a hand between them to stroke himself, but maybe he didn't need to, didn't need anything but Sherlock inside him and around him. That was when Sherlock's rhythm changed and he plunged even deeper, his entire body vibrating with the effort, and John could feel him close and canted his hips against him and Sherlock came with a desperate thrust and came and pumped into him, and John, bucking against Sherlock's weight and his sweat-slicked body, followed while Sherlock shuddered in the aftershocks.  
Sherlock had collapsed onto John's chest, panting, but his good hand searched for John anyway, wanting to finish him, unaware. "Oh", he said when he realized.  
"Oh indeed", John laughed, and Sherlock, still inside him, gasped at the sensation and laughed. John threw his arms around him, held him just as they were and felt Sherlock relax, saw the realization sink in that it was all good and he had, inexplicably, done well.  
  
  
  
How was it it was always the middle of the night when the important things came to the table? John had no idea. Here we go again, he thought, when he felt Sherlock's head touch his in mute enquiry. The sweat had dried, and the first bird songs threaded through the night. John kept silent but rubbed his head against Sherlock's to show he listened.  
  
"Do you sometimes wish I was her?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Too fast."  
  
"I anticipated the question, Sherlock. I'm not that stupid."  
  
"Do you wish it had been her? On the bridge."  
  
"Yes. Of course."  
  
"I see."  
  
"No you don't."  
  
Sherlock inched away from John, breaking contact. John wouldn't have any of that and scooted closer, taking his hand.  
  
"Of course I don't want her to be dead. Sherlock. Of course I still love her. I always will." Sherlock's hand in his stiffened and tried to withdraw, but John held fast. "Of course I miss her. Of course I miss my unborn daughter. What kind of person would I be if I didn't? That would be horrible. You don't stop loving someone when they're dead." He rubbed his hand gently with his thumb. "I didn't stop loving you when I thought you were dead.  
"But that's not the question you should ask. You should ask if I'd choose her over you if, by some miracle, she'd come back from the dead. That's what you should ask me."  
  
Sherlock was quiet for so long John thought he'd fallen asleep again. Only the tension in his hand told him he was still there, processing. Outside, the sky had turned a deep indigo with a hint of lighter blue on the horizon.  
  
"Would you?"  
  
John propped himself up on an elbow so he could see his face while he told him.  
  
"No. I made a decision. I chose you, you idiot. I chose you."  
  
"Yes, but - you might change your mind."

"Well, so might you."  
  
"No!"  
  
"Why do you think I would then? That's pretty offensive, actually."  
  
At that, Sherlock lifted his hand and ran his fingers over John's cheek and through his hair. "I don't know. I'm new to this. All I know is that I don't want you to leave."  
  
John kissed him then, gently, mindful of Sherlock's split lip. "I'm not going to leave. This is what I want."  
  
"But, can we-"  
  
"No. Shut up. We have no idea what's going to happen next. And yes, that's scary. I know very well all kinds of horrible things happen to people you love. But I can see this very clearly. Nothing fuzzy about it. I'm here. This is now. I want to be with you for as long as I live."  
  
"I want to be with you for as long as I live as well."  
  
"Do you need a ring to prove this?"  
  
"A - ring?"  
  
"Because Mycroft seems to think so. And if you do, I will buy you the most pretentious ring this country has to offer. First thing tomorrow."  
  
Sherlock was silent while he grasped the implications. "You'd do that, wouldn't you?"  
  
"If it's important to you, it's important to me."  
  
"But... but the facts are there, aren't they. I mean. We are."  
  
"You know what. Let's make a deal. I'll never pretend. And you'll believe what I tell you."  
  
"I see through your lies anyway."  
  
John smiled at that. "Of course you do. Okay. Here's a test: I love you."  
  
"I believed that", Sherlock said around the kiss that lingered and lingered and turned deep and messy, John tasted blood, but Sherlock didn't let him go. When they drew back, Sherlock said: "If this is our honeymoon, I'd really like to try what you just did. If you're up for it."  
  
"Oh, but I am", said John, and then Sherlock pulled him closer.  
  
"Ah. Yes. That you are."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock tried to recall if he'd ever had a holiday, and failed. Maybe back when he'd been with his parents. Trips to Italy. To France. Absorbing information because their parents would quiz them later, and they'd have to prove they had learned something. Absorbing the language because there was nothing worse than not knowing what a waiter might have to say about you while you sat at a dinner table, your legs still too short to reach the floor. Being a tourist, to Sherlock, was a lesson in humiliation.  
Only this wasn't. With John, things were different. They did visit the Everglades, and Sherlock was silent and watched, raptly, as spoonbills came home to roost and turkey vultures stole from tourists. As the sun set golden over the saw grass and the hammocks, Sherlock slung an arm around John and said: "Thank you." He couldn't even say what for. For everything, really.  
They lounged at the beach and watched crabs, and Sherlock disarmed a con man, and they had an eventful dinner at a Five Guys where Sherlock busted one of the Five Guys who sold crack to go with the fries.  
  
  
If this was a honeymoon, John thought, watching skimmers dive for prey, it was pretty much perfect. He watched the sunset from the restaurant's verandah, waiting for Sherlock to come down for dinner, and nobody chided him for having a glass of Scotch before dinner. Right here, right now, John loved his life.  
  
"I keep underestimating you."  
  
John almost dropped his Scotch. Of course, Mycroft.  
  
"Well, hello there. We hoped you'd gone home."  
  
"My colleagues asked for my assistance during what they dubbed 'The Clean-up'. Even though most of Darrell's co-conspirators were in it without their knowledge, and Darrell's plans were tolerated by his superiors, they believe this is an excellent opportunity to clear a few head counts. Cut a bit of fat. Open career paths for young and aspiring agents."  
  
John snorted at the euphemisms. He probably needed more Scotch.  
  
"Anyway. Mycroft. Sit, have a drink. Sherlock's about to come down in a moment."  
  
"I doubt that. I sent him a riddle that will keep him occupied for at least fifteen minutes."  
  
"Brotherly love", sighed John and took another sip. "What do you want from me then?"  
  
"I want to express my admiration."

"Noted. That all?"  
  
"I am entirely serious. I never thought you had it in you."  
  
John was silent and watched a heron alight on a tree across the bay. A chill came over him, the sun must have set.  
  
"Aiming a gun at your wife. Who would have thought."  
  
"She wasn't my wife."  
  
"True. But you didn't know that then."  
  
John knocked back the rest of his Scotch. "Excuse me, Mycroft, I think our table might be ready any minute now."  
  
Mycroft looked at him with what John might have described as pity if he hadn't known Mycroft so well. "I have a gift for you, John. We found her."  
  
"Not again. Mycroft."  
  
"The report came in today. Her body was found in Elan Valley."  
  
John stared straight ahead at the heron that hopped from branch to branch and finally settled for a nice horizontal one.  
  
"If you want, I can have her and her unborn child interred discreetly in the grave you chose. Or you can have a formal burial. You don't have to decide this now. Let me know. I'll handle the rest."  
  
For a while, none spoke.  
  
"I know it is hard, John."  
  
"Will you tell Sherlock?"  
  
"Do you want me to?"  
  
"Will it make him trust me?"  
  
"Knowing that she's dead might. What that is worth, I cannot say. Knowing that you almost shot someone you thought was her... Hm. Not sure this bodes well for your first serious domestic dispute."  
  
At that, John had to chuckle, and he was able to look at Mycroft then.  
  
"John. Think it through and then decide. Knowing Sherlock, I believe nothing is ever going to convince him it's actually her, and he certainly won't take my word for it. His trust is an entirely different matter. He does trust you. He just doesn't believe he's worthy."  
  
"Mycroft. He's the best-"  
  
"I know that, John. He's my brother. You and I are the two people in the world who love him best." Mycroft stood and brushed invisible dust off his trousers. "If you tell him I said that I'll have you executed."  
  
"Thank you, Mycroft."  
  
"Thank you, John."

 

* * *

Sherlock always knew. John was sure Mycroft was long gone when Sherlock finally came down for dinner, but still, he asked: "What did Mycroft want?"  
  
"Oh, you know. Just gloat."  
  
Sherlock plopped down on the bench next to John and put an arm around him. "Anything serious?" John pressed his nose against the freshly laundered shirt Sherlock had put on for dinner and inhaled his clean Sherlock scent.  
  
"Not really, no."  
  
"You don't look like it's nothing."  
  
"We talked about your trust issues."  
  
"What did you tell him?"  
  
"What I always tell him", John grinned, pressed his nose against Sherlock's shoulder and gave him a lewd look. "I promise him that from now on, I'll love you much, much harder."  
  
After a brief moment of shock, Sherlock burst out laughing, and then John, and then Sherlock hugged him hard, still laughing, and John thought despite it all, they were the happiest men on earth.  



	12. Epilogue

Mycroft. Of course it was Mycroft. Sherlock noticed the manila folder in his hand and threw the door shut, but he was too late - Mycroft had his foot in the door. At least the crunch with which the door hit the expensive Italian leather was supremely satisfying.  
  
"No. Not interested. Go away."  
  
"Brother dear. Welcome back to London."  
  
He shouldered past Sherlock and dropped the envelope on the table.  
  
"Who's back this time? No, let me guess. Moriarty. Close?"  
  
Mycroft stared at him, or rather, at his nose and forehead, and pointed. "You have some-"  
  
"That's an ointment. Zinc oxide."  
  
"Of course it is."  
  
"I have a sunburn. John uses it to treat the- do you really think I would - why do I even have to explain myself to you?"  
  
"I don't know. Why do you feel you have to?"  
  
Sherlock wiped the ointment off his face anyway and winced. "Why exactly are you here?"  
  
"Aren't you the least bit curious what's inside the folder?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Look anyway. I'll go away if you do. And you can return to putting zinc oxide on your face. With John."  
  
"Well, there's an offer. Why didn't you say so?"  
  
He did open the folder then. Instead of a grainy surveillance picture taken with a high-powered telephoto lens, it showed a decent picture of a little girl, not even a year old, chewing on her little fist with a two-toothed smile. She wore a cute little jumper with a cute little bunny on it and cute little trousers and had a bit of blond fuzz surrounding her head like a halo. It'd been a little while since he'd seen her, and then she'd been a tiny pawn in a cruel game.  
  
"Mycroft. We all know that's not her."  
  
"We found her parents."  
  
Sherlock flipped the page. Two rectangular holes in the ground surrounded by markers, rulers, providing a sense of scale. Shoddy, he thought. Not deep enough. Of course they'd been found.  
  
"A construction site near Orlando. Her mother, DeAnna, and her father, Rick. Single bullet to the head."  
  
"No other family?"  
  
"None to speak of. She'll go to welfare."  
  
Sherlock handed the folder back to Mycroft. "Poor kid."  
  
"I could call in favours."  
  
Sherlock looked out the window and down to the street where any minute now, John would turn up, back from work. Maybe a bit later if he went to Tesco's first. He didn't really think then, it was more like developing an insanely detailed four-dimensional mural of their life, the way it was, the way it could be, and he felt the pressure of that spare bedroom intensely. "What do I do", he thought, and knew he had said it out loud only when Mycroft replied: "The right thing. What else is there?"  



End file.
